


An Ocean Away

by just_the_fics_maam



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: An Ocean Away, Divorce, F/M, London, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_the_fics_maam/pseuds/just_the_fics_maam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fed up and frustrated with her life, thirty-something Sarah Hindlay jumps on a plane at the last minute to escape for a few days and find some clarity. In London, she finds refuge with a friend and a little more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ascent

You close your eyes as the plane speeds down the runway. For some reason this is always the most difficult part of a flight: the takeoff. There is that moment when the entire plane is rattling and bumping and making the most terrible groaning noises and then all of a sudden—nothing.

And you’re floating free.

You look out the window and see the tiny spires of evergreen trees below you, growing smaller and smaller. A bit higher up, you can see the summer haze that cloaks your town, almost blue: muggy, close, hot. You are above it now.

The cabin is loud with that constant buzzing sound. Your seatmate turns his air on, and the tiny plastic vent blasts coldly onto your own armrest as well. You move your elbow off of it, clasp your arms tightly to yourself. You wish your sweat jacket weren’t crammed in the bottom of your bag, stowed under your seat. The Fasten Seatbelt sign is still on, and probably will be for a full five minutes or more. The plane continues to ascend.

You should have packed the jacket in the top of your bag, but you weren’t really thinking straight as you stuffed things into your backpack just an hour ago. You reached your breaking point, that point you had been hoping to avoid: totally giving up.

It has been five long years of marriage. Well, the first two weren’t that long; the first two were amazing. Light, airy, floating. Love was so sweet. But now you’re on the shelf; he hasn’t touched you in months except to give you a hug every now and then, a weak pat on the shoulders before he rushes off to the computer, to the office, to the store, to sleep on the couch.

You have no idea what caused this change in him. Your love for him, though you want it to change, remains untouchable. You love him, admire him, love to watch him sleeping, love to hear his laugh. But he grows more and more uninterested in you. Completely uninterested, in fact. The death of self has become like a deafening sound – deafening silence. You used to be on top of his list, and now? Now you aren’t even on it.

Through it all Lane has still been a good husband, in all the public ways. He goes to work every day, faithfully; even doggedly. He gives you a card on your birthday, a respectably expensive and indulgent Christmas gift. When he says he loves you – when he remembers to say anything at all to you – you feel like he might even be telling the truth. And yet, if this is all that love is – paychecks and surround sound and dry little hugs – well, you didn’t sign up for that. Your spirit rebels. And now, even your body rebels. You want to feel — no, you need to feel — the possession of desire, someone’s hands on your body, the feeling of wanting and of being wanted. The press of someone’s weight on you, the rasp of stubble across your skin.

By the time you arrive in Atlanta you are starving. You run to a newsstand and grab a bottle of orange juice and a sandwich, wolfing it down as you hike to your next gate. Luckily your connecting flight leaves from the same concourse, but it’s still a long walk in this huge, endless airport. You laugh as you pass one, two, three different storefronts for Hudson News. How many of them are there?

You gulp down the orange juice and throw the bottle away, toss the sandwich wrapper in the trash with half of it uneaten. Your stomach roils. You wait to board your flight. If there were a time for second thoughts, it would be now. Is it wise to show up unannounced at your ex’s apartment in Chicago? No. Is it wise to leave home with only five days’ worth of clothing, not knowing if you will ever really return again? No. Is it wise to feel that cord break, that thin thread between you and marital fidelity, to leave the home you share with your husband, knowing that you might be – probably are – on the way to a very poorly planned, emotionally and physically overwhelming affair? What is an affair, anyway? Are you just trying to kill your love in the best way you know how? Is it ever right?

No.

And yet it’s the only plan you have left. Faced with a two-week break between contracts with the development company, you know it’s now or never; you either have to escape now or live this stilted, strangled life forever.

They call your seat number and you board the plane.

—

You nod off in the middle of this flight, a longer flight. For some ponderous reason, they routed your flight through LaGuardia instead of flying you straight from ATL to ORD, right on Lake Michigan. You can’t wait to arrive there, to breathe the air, to relive those exciting moments of young love, graduate school. The buzz of urban life that you miss so much.

Normally you cannot sleep on planes, but your emotional state these past few weeks has left you so exhausted that now, finally breaking free, you are flooded with relief and you nearly pass out in your seat, leaning against the hull of the plane, watching the clouds float by, so slowly.

Your stomach drops as you feel the altitude of the plane suddenly plummet. Everyone on board jerks to attention. A baby cries. The air feels bumpy. Turbulence. You grip the armrests. Then, the plane falls again. Even grasping the armrests, you feel like you are floating alone in the vast reaches of space. There is nothing to cling to anymore. Your head pitches forward, and you find that you are weeping, which you are not normally accustomed to doing. Funny enough, you know you are not crying from fear of the plane, or of crashing, or of falling. You are more afraid of what will happen when your airplane finally lands.

The plane regains its smooth ascent, and before long you are only an hour outside of LaGuardia. You can see the Atlantic coastline from your window, the blue-green water, shining and shimmering. It’s a hot day, you can tell, though not as blistering as the southern clime you left behind.

Relief floods through you, and the flight attendants move quickly through the rows, serving complimentary drinks – even free cocktails – to anyone who wants one. Your double Crown and Coke arrives, and you feel its pleasant burn in the back of your throat. You feel buoyant all of a sudden. Clear. Calm. You know what you will do.

On the ground, you gather your things and walk out of the plane and to the nearest window. You put your bags down by your feet, pull out your phone, and call Patricia, your best friend. She has known you better than maybe anyone else on earth, ever since the two of you were nine years hold, getting in trouble for hanging upside down on the monkey-bars.

Ladies don’t show their underpants, said Sister Josefina, and you both plopped to the ground, brushed down your plaid skirts, and rolled your eyes, trying to keep your giggles silent as she walked away.

She doesn’t pick up. You begin to regret not calling her sooner, nor more often. She hardly even knows that you and Lane are having problems. You would tell yourself all the reasons why you shouldn’t call: She is busy. She has three kids, and you have none. Your whining will sound petty and hollow to her. But the most pressing reason really is undoubtedly true: She lives an ocean away, and it’s hard to find the right time to call, when both of you will be awake, and available.

You get her voicemail. Immediately, you hang up and call again, just in case she couldn’t get to her phone on time. You imagine her searching for it in her purse, wiping jam from her fingers in the middle of making school lunches for the next day. You look at the time: 3:54pm. It will be nearly 9 o’clock at night for her.

Again, she doesn’t pick up.

Desperate, you tap out a quick text to her:

On the outs with Lane, Have to talk. Hate to do this without warning, but I’m coming to see you. I can stay in a hotel if you’re too busy, no prob. Xoxo

You take your boarding pass for Chicago, tear it in half and then half again, and throw it into the garbage can. You make your way to the International concourse, and thank your lucky stars that VISA doubled your limit last month. Maybe true clarity is waiting for you somewhere across the ocean.


	2. At Dawn

When you arrive in Heathrow you are completely disoriented. It’s five in the morning GMT, but you are so jazzed from your change in plans, and from everything that has happened in the last twelve hours that you barely slept at all. You check into a small, shabby, comfortable hotel overlooking the Thames and abandon all notions of sleep. You push out into the grey street, walking briskly, breathing the air and smelling its scent for the first time in months. Maybe years.

First things first; you grimace and pause for a moment, leaning on a lamppost as you type out a quick note to Lane. You left him a letter at home, but it seems fair to let him know you are all right. After all, he has always been a good friend to you, in spite of his disinterest in being your lover. You tell him everything is fine, you’re visiting Patricia, and you need some time to think about things, some space and time. You try to think how to end your message. You walk a few paces down the sidewalk, holding your phone with the unfinished text, when suddenly someone darts out from around the corner of the great stone building and runs fully into you.

Your nose jams up into your face as his chest slams into you, and your eyes start watering. Fuck, you say, bending over. Sweat from his shirt front presses dampness onto your cheek, and you move over to the side, catching your breath and letting your tears run down your face. Twice in one day. You hardly ever cry.

“Oh, my God,” says the runner, and you finally stand. You glance at your phone and see that in the commotion you pressed Send on your terse message without completing it. So be it. You put the phone in your pocket, cross your arms, and look up. The most arresting greenish eyes greet you back, a look of terrified concern across the face. He’s beautiful, says your mind. I feel like I know him. But how?

“I am so sorry,” he says, reaching out to touch your sleeve, briefly.

You look up at him and smile, covering your nose and wiping the tears from your eyes. “It’s all right,” you say, laughing. “It’s really all right. It’s my fault. I’m exhausted and I shouldn’t be texting and walking.” You laugh nervously, cross your arms, and nod to him. You walk on down the road.

—

At seven thirty you sit at a café, gulping down your second cup of coffee as quickly as its scalding heat will allow. People watching is fun, if not a bit overwhelming, on just one hour of sleep. You imagine the life stories of everyone you see, and suddenly you can feel it – your sixth sense. You have always been “just a little bit psychic,” as you tell your friends. You laugh as though it isn’t a big deal, but the weight of it is sometimes quite heavy. You predicted your own father’s unexpected heart attack the day before it happened. You knew the life story of your college roommate before she even told you. A man walks by, hunched over, haggard. You know somehow that he is going through a divorce, that his wife is holding his kids as a kind of ransom for her broken heart – two kids? Three? He’s worried to the point of nausea about whether they will be all right. You reach out a hand to touch his sleeve and as he turns to you, you tell him, “The kids are going to be okay. It’s okay.”

He looks at you with astonishment, and you chastise yourself. Normally you don’t give messages to people, cold. You wait to know someone first, and decide whether it is wise to share what you somehow know. You brace yourself for his anger, but then to your surprise, he breaks out in a smile and pats your hand. “I don’t know how you knew to say that, miss, but I’m glad you did.” You feel his relief, like sunshine. He takes a deep, satisfied breath. At least someone is happy today, you think. You just smile and nod, and he walks on.

He called you “miss.” When was the last time someone did that? Maybe you are looking younger here on this side of the Atlantic. Maybe leaving the weighty concerns of your real life behind is having an effect on your face; maybe the worry-lines are working their way loose. Then, another prickle of premonition: Patricia.

Your phone rings in that moment. You know who it is. You answer it without looking at the Caller ID screen. “Gumdrops!” you shout into the phone.

“Skittles!” comes the laughing reply. You and Patricia always answer your phones with the names of candy. It started during the late-night grad-school study sessions, and continuing it now is a comforting reminder of old times.

“What on earth?!” comes Patricia’s concerned query. “Where are you? What’s going on? Are you in London?”

“Yes, I’m in London. It’s a long story. Or maybe a short one. I know you’re busy, Patricia, but—“

“Pish tush,” she says. “I’m not busy at all when my best friend is having a crisis. Come over here right away,” she says. “I’ve just got the kids ready for the school run, and I’ll be back home by nine. You can let yourself in through the back garden if you get here before I get back.”

You are nearly crying with relief. “Oh, Patricia…” you say. Your voice breaks.

“Now, none of that,” she says. “Wait until I’m here with you. Chin up, and get your bum over here now.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say, drying your tears. Perfect Patricia. How could you have gone so long without confiding in her?

You drain your cup, leave a tip on the table, and walk out into the broadening day.


	3. In London

Patricia arrives with a paper sack of groceries. You hear her steps up the front walk, and let her in her own front door. She rushes to put the sack down on the table in the entranceway, and engulfs you in a long, tight hug. You’re crying yet again. She pushes back on your shoulders.

“Now, let me look at you then…” She smiles and looks up and down, but then frowns when she sees your tears. “Sarah, darling…”

You sit at the kitchen table and the whole story pours out. She heats a kettle on the stove and you tell her about the long nights alone in bed while Lane stays up working or sleeping on the couch.

“I don’t think he’s cheating,” you say, and you mean it. “He just isn’t interested. At all.” The kettle whistles.

“What’s this really about, then?” asks Patricia, plunking a teabag into both mugs and pouring steaming water over both of them. She pushes one in front of you and you warm your hands around the earthenware, the smell of bergamot filling your nostrils.

“It’s me,” you say. “I know it is. I’m just… I’m so busy. I’m boring. I’m drab. I’m a has-been. I’ve got nothing that a man could want.”

Patricia laughs, then immediately covers her mouth with her hand. “Darling, what do you mean?”

“I mean, I used to be vivacious. I used to be beautiful and interesting and fun. Patricia, I used to be young. Now I’m past my prime and boring and used up and a workaholic, and my husband can’t even stand to touch me…” Your voice breaks and you are sobbing onto the tile top of her kitchen table. She smooths her back on your hand and you cry, and cry, and cry.

Eventually you run out of tears, and Patricia looks at you with one of her calm, no-nonsense looks. “You are none of those things, my dear. None of them. You’re beautiful. And you’re not old, either. Or if you are, then I’m ancient.” She laughs. “Don’t forget, I’m four years older than you.” She pauses for a moment, then looks directly at you again. “So why are you here?”

“I’m not sure,” you say. “I need to clear my head. To tell the truth…” You take a breath. “I was done. I left home with a bag packed to go and see Anthony.”

“ANTHONY? So it’s serious.”

“It’s been… months.”

“Months?! You poor darling. Can I ask how many?”

“Seven and a half,” you say, with bitter precision. You run your fingers through your hair. “I haven’t been to bed with my own husband for over half a year. Sometimes I feel like it would all be solved – everything – if he would just fuck me.” Your laugh is bitter. But it feels good to let the truth out into the air. You haven’t spoken these words to anyone until now. “I thought, no matter how bad of an idea it is, Anthony at least might be willing to do that. He and I did have a pretty fantastic sex life.”

“Until he left you for his cousin.”

You laugh. “That wasn’t his cousin. It was his cousin’s friend.”

“Young friend,” she says.

“Very.” You pause. “Who knew a man could make me feel so old and broken at only twenty-six?”

“And then you met Lane. How long after?”

“A month. A month after. Lane was so different from him, in every way. Anthony was blue collar, artistic, tattooed, muscled. Lane is different. He’s thoughtful. Analytical. Most people don’t know it, but he’s really an intellectual. He got drunk one night and launched into an analysis of King Lear, of all things. Apparently he read it for his thesis. He’s a numbers man, but he has a whole world of thought underneath it.”

Patricia just stares at you.

“What?”

“You sound like you’re still in love with him.”

“I might be,” you say, pounding your head melodramatically onto your arms.

“In love with his brain, maybe.”

“Maybe. But suddenly I’m finding that I just can’t do without someone who is in love with my body. The one thing Lane is missing, well, Anthony had it in spades.”

“But still, Sarah, you can’t go back to an ex like that.”

“I know, I know. It’s a terrible idea, isn’t it?”

She considers. “Maybe. It depends on what your goal is. If your goal is to get fucked and get all fucked up, then it’s a great idea.” She smiles. “But if your goal is to figure out what your future is with Lane, Anthony is the exact opposite of what you need. But you know me. I’m just honest as a bitch.”

You laugh. “You are. And you’re right. Patricia, darling, I’m a mess. And suddenly, I’m very tired. Is there someplace I could take a nap? I have a room at the Oxford, but I feel so tired just now.”

“Up the stairs, on the left,” she says. “Go ahead and stretch out.” She smiles and waves you away.

It’s a guest room, beautifully furnished with a simple bed and side table, a chair, and a wardrobe. The bed is made with a bright white cotton duvet and sheets, and some white netting is looped around the bedposts and stretched over the top of the bed like a canopy. Light streams through the thin cotton windowshade. It is silent and cool. Perfect.

—

You are awakened by Patricia standing at your bedside. She is shaking you by the shoulder. “Wake up, Sarah. Wake up, honey.”

You open your eyes. The light is fading in the window. You sit up suddenly. “Oh, God!” you say. “What time is it?”

“Not that late, darling, don’t worry.”

You stare at the wall, listless. You take a breath. “I’ll go back to my room at the hotel,” you say. “I can hear your family time downstairs.” Indeed you can – Patricia’s three boys are loud and boisterous. They sound very happy.

“Nonsense,” she says. “The sitter is coming, and you and I are going out. Carlos has an event this evening, and we’re going along with him.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have anything to wear!”

She laughs. “It’s not that terrible of a situation, is it? I have a closet full of things I wear to these ridiculous things. You’ll find something in there.”

“I’m so much bigger than you, though,” you say, looking at her slender, toned frame.

“Not that much bigger, now,” she says. “I’m sure I have something.” She takes you by the hand and leads you down the hall to her room. Her closet is quite large; surprisingly large for someone who was never vain or obsessed with fashion. Carlos’s job as a writer for the Daily Telegraph let them into some interesting events, and Patricia liked to be able to go along with him whenever she was able.

“I’ll leave you here,” she says. “I’m washing my hair and dressing downstairs. My dress just got in from the cleaners. Lock the door when I leave so no one bursts in on you.” She laughs. “The boys aren’t very good at manners yet.”

She leaves and pulls the door shut behind her. You paw halfheartedly through the gowns. Too small, too small, too small, you think. Your eye catches one: a vintage looking gown, lace and beadwork in mint green. Early 50s styling. You take it off the rack to examine it. What a fascinating dress. You can’t tell if it’s ugly or gorgeous. As you run your fingers over the intricate beadwork, you notice that it is cut generously in the hips; this one might actually work. Ugly or not, it might be your only choice of a dress for tonight.

You step out of your pants and pull your shirt off over your head. Unzipping the dress, you lift it over your head and feel it slide, silky, down the length of your arms and torso. You settle the skirt around your hips; the top hangs down from your waist, limp. Do you look like a starlet? Or like a grandmother…

Your phone rings.

Your stomach clenches into a knot. It could be anyone at this point. You look at it. Lane.

It rings again.

A third time.

You pick it up and lower yourself, half dressed, onto the bed.

“Hey.”

“Sarah.” He pauses. “Hi.” His voice is short and clipped.

“Did you get my note?”

“I did.”

You wait for him to say why he is calling.

“Sarah, this is ridiculous. I don’t understand what you want from me.” An angry edge comes into his voice.

“Lane, we’ve had this conversation a million times. I need you to touch me. I need you to treat me like a wife. Like a woman. Like a lover. Not like a roommate.”

“Is that all I am to you?”

“To be honest? Right now, yes.”

“Well that is just… Sarah, that is shortsighted and childish.”

You say nothing. The cruelty of his words crackles in your ear.

“I don’t know why I always have to be the one to compromise,” he says.

“You? You? I… Lane… I just don’t even know what to say to you.”

“Well, try, if you can.”

“Lane, you’re a good man. You’re a kind man, most of the time. But you’re so walled off. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“I’m the same man I always was, Sarah. You’re the only one who changed.”

“Well if you’re just like you used to be, then why don’t you treat me like you used to treat me? You used to love me. You used to like me. It used to be that you couldn’t keep your hands off of me.”

“Well, that’s when we saw each other only a few times a week. When we were dating. When we were both working so hard.”

“We both work hard now, Lane! What does that even mean?”

“When I see you so often, I…”

“You WHAT.”

“Well, I didn’t want to have to say this, Sarah, but you killed it.”

“I killed it?” You are angry now, your heart pounding, your throat tightening. Surprisingly for today, no tears, though.

“You always want so much.” His voice changes to a whisper “You’re always so goddamned horny.”

“Wait, you won’t sleep with me for over six months, and it’s my fault, because I want you too much?”

“Yep. That’s about the gist of it. You have to give a man space. Give him time to want you again. You can’t just push it so much. You’ve just got to learn how to make do with less of me. I’m a busy man.” His voice, so calm and so critical.

Your hands shake. You grip the phone tighter. You feel cold, steely. Your heart is racing and a headache is starting at the back of your neck. In a dark, slow, low voice you spit out the words you have been holding back for weeks, maybe months. They fly out like daggers, like an axe thrown at a barn wall. “Fuck you, Lane. FUCK. YOU.” You press the red button on your glowing screen, drop the phone on the bed, and wriggle out of the mint green dress. You need something sluttier than this tonight.

—

Carlos pulls the car up right next to the bar of the posh hotel. He smiles and leans over, giving Patricia a peck on the lips. “I’ll be right in,” he says. “Go in and grab a drink, and then will you hold my place in line while I get the car parked?”

“Sure, darling,” says Patricia. She opens the door and slides out, then reaches a hand in to help you out of the car.

It’s an awkward exit to say the least. The dress you picked, probably about one size too small, clings tightly to your waist and ass, and presses in on your chest, pushing your breasts together and creating an illusion of cleavage. The shoes as well – luckily you and Patricia wear the same size – are higher than you are used to wearing. On the sidewalk you teeter for a moment, then square your shoulders.

“Ready to have a little fun?” asks Patricia.

“Never more ready,” you say. You didn’t tell Patricia about your conversation with Lane. You don’t have words for it yet, the shock of his statement, his accusatory tone. You’re always so goddamned horny. His words, the coldness, the clipped, divorced tone: it throws you into a bizarre sort of desperation. You feel like you’re fighting for your life – that if you are ever going to feel anything, ever again, you have to break out of your shell, break out of your rut. Break something.

You follow Patricia into the hotel.

At the bar, to your surprise, there isn’t a bartender, nor any alcohol. Instead, there are towers of chilled bottles of water, ginger ale, Coca-Cola, seltzer. You crane your neck to see if you have just missed something.

“No booze yet,” says Patricia. “They don’t put it out until the work is done for the night. Then everyone comes out, and we party together.” She smiles. “It really doesn’t take that long.”

You sigh and roll your eyes, trying desperately to act like the grown up that you are. “I’ll be right back,” you say. “Where will you be?”

“Just down this hall,” says Patricia.

You run out into the street, and you see a store on the corner. You dash in and run your eyes up and down the shelves. A small bottle of golden whiskey catches your eye. You grab it and pay quickly at the counter.

“No mixers, miss?” asks the clerk.

“Nope,” you say, short and clipped. You get your change and leave.

As you cross the street, you work the bottle into your tiny purse. It becomes awkwardly heavy and makes a telltale sloshing sound, but at least you can fit it in and get the zipper shut. Inside the hotel again, you pause in the lobby. It is quiet here. Not a soul to be seen. You take the bottle out, crack it open, and take a shot. The liquor is kind, warming you, working its way down into your stomach. Steadying your resolve.

You rush down the hall to Patricia.

—

“We wait for about ten minutes,” she says. “And then they come out and give us our schedules. Or, well, Carlos’s schedule. Did you know there are some people from Hollywood here?”

“Really?”

“Yes! Which means we will probably get to rub elbows with them after the work is done.”

“Excellent.” You look around. The corridor looks like any hotel hallway in the world. It’s boring, with garnet and tan wallpaper, low, flat carpet underfoot.

“Can you do that for me?” says Patricia.

“Do what?”

“Where are you today?” she laughs. “I said, can you stay here a minute while I go find the restroom?”

“Don’t you mean ‘the loo’?” You smile.

“I suppose I do. But I’m still American in my heart,” she says. And she walks away. You fold your arms and look around you at the other people waiting. They are mostly men; older men in their 40s, a few very young-looking men who could be 25 or even younger. Everyone – well, everyone except for you – is wearing a plastic-covered badge with their name and publication printed on it.

A door opens, and the line begins to move. Quickly. You look around for a sign of Carlos or Patricia. You have no idea what to do. The reporters ahead of you file in slowly, adjusting their briefcases and bags of audio recorders. A few hold portable microphones.

Now you are at the door. You walk in, expecting to find someone with a clipboard that you can talk to, to explain the situation. Instead, as you walk in your eyes struggle to adjust to the low light. You are in the anteroom of a ballroom, and there are people everywhere. Someone thrusts a piece of paper in your hand, and you can see that it is the interview schedule. You scan down the columns, looking for Carlos’s name, or some mention of The Daily Telegraph. Finally you see that his first appointment is in room 117. You make your way there, expecting that you might stand outside the door and watch for him to come. You try to call Patricia on your phone, but inside the depths of the hotel you have no signal.

Near room 117 the crowd thins out and you are finally alone again. You find the door, read the number on its brass plate. You lean against the wall and, smiling to yourself, open your bottle again. How ridiculous you must look, you think to yourself. And yet, at this point, you are nearly beyond caring. A little more of this whiskey and you won’t care about anything at all. Where on earth are Carlos and Patricia?

After a minute or two, you realize you have to pee, and you remember that you didn’t put on any makeup before you left the house. You had no time after the phone call from Lane; you could only pull on this dress and run out the door with Patricia and Carlos, trailing after them like their slow, dawdling daughter.

No one seems to be in the room, so you try the door. It’s open. You slip inside and see that the bedside lamp is on, but no one is here. You peer around the corner. A few bags, some stacks of paper and notebook, but nobody is here. You dip into the bathroom and lock the door behind you. You look at your face in the mirror. You roll your eyes and feel ridiculous even attempting to make yourself beautiful. And yet you try anyway. You smooth on foundation, brush smoky shadow over your lids, flick mascara through your lashes. You decide on a coral lipstain and dot it lightly on your lips. You smile. Not entirely bad. You’ll pass, you suppose. You pee, wash your hands, and dry them slowly on the full fluffy towel.

When you open the door again, you are surprised to see that the room is darkened. A man’s voice makes you jump in surprise.

“No… yeah… no one here. No. Telegraph or Guardian or someone. No. It’s good. I’ve got this wretched headache…”

You open the door slowly.

“Hello,” says a friendly voice.

“I’m sorry,” you say, dipping toward the door.

“Oh, dear, you’ve only just arrived, don’t leave.” He laughs, and clicks on a light. “Hey,” he says.

His beauty hits you in the gut; your breath catches for a moment. He is tall; very tall. Smiling, relaxed. A full head of wavy reddish-blonde hair, the beginning of a scruffy goatee. “Hi,” you say, and not knowing what else to do, you hold out your hand. “I’m Sarah,” you say.

“Sarah. Hi. I’m Tom.” Your name sounds beautiful from his mouth. His handshake is firm and warm.

“I’m actually here saving a place for my friend’s husband,” you say. “He’s with the Daily Telegraph. He was just trying to park the car. I didn’t expect him to be this long. And my friend just ran out to the restroom for a moment, and so it’s just me.”

“Well, that’s all right,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with just you.” His eyes are on you. Intense. You feel a blush rise in your cheeks, against your will. “Where are you from?” he asks. “You sound… very American.”

You laugh. “Well, I am very American. I’m from all over. I was born in Ohio, moved to South Carolina for a while, went to grad school in Chicago, then back down to the Eastern Seaboard.” You are about to say “when I got married,” but you don’t.

“Wow,” he says, sitting and crossing one ankle over his other knee. “I like America,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s a very… open place. People are so kind there. Very generous, Americans.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” you say. “I feel like our reputation is not as good as it used to be.”

He sits back in his chair, covers his face with his hands, and sighs heavily.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sitting here boring you and taking up your time. I can go see if the next interviewer is here yet?” You stand. “Or maybe Carlos is finally back.”

He squeezes his temples. You hesitate.

“Have you got a headache?” you ask.

He nods. He uncovers his face, lays back with his eyes closed.

You move slowly, gingerly. With a touch of the old sixth sense, you can feel his pain as if it were your own, the tension along the front of his head, grasping his scalp like a strong hand. The aching pressure at the base of his skull and down his neck.

You pause, then gather your courage. You walk behind his chair and press your thumbs into the pressure points on his forehead, next to his eyes, on his cheeks, and on his chin. Then, you run your fingers slowly along his scalp on the top of his head. Your breath comes quickly and you swallow, your mouth dry. His hair is soft, very soft for a man’s. His eyelashes rest on his cheeks and he takes in a breath, lets it out with a sigh. “Mmm,” he says. “That’s amazing. Can you do that one more time, darling?”

You press your thumbs along his pressure points again, working more slowly this time. You trace his full eyebrows with your fingertip, massage his jaw. He lets out a groan. His eyes fly open. You gulp again, looking into their depth. “If you’ve got just one more minute, could you – can you –” he points to his shoulders. “It’s just that these days are so long, so much time hunched over in a chair.”

“Sure,” you say. He scoots forward in the chair and you slide in behind him. You pull the warm leather jacket and scarf off of him and lay it on the table. You dig in, working the muscles along the top of his shoulders. He lets out a moan.

“God…” he says. “Unnh…”

You can’t help but giggle. “I’m sorry,” you say. “It just sounds—”

“Sounds like something else entirely, doesn’t it,” he says, smiling. When he speaks you can feel the vibration of his low voice through the skin of his neck. You can smell the fresh evergreen fragrance of shampoo or soap. You pinch up and down the sides of his long, muscular neck, and rub your thumbs up it in a slow, circular pattern. His skin pulls and stretches beneath your hands, and pink marks begin to appear on the surface.

“Wait here a minute,” you say, and leap to your feet. In the bathroom, you find it – a small plastic bottle of lotion. You snap the lid off, and fortunately it doesn’t have a strong scent; it smells lightly of apricots.

You jump back in your seat and warm a dollop of lotion between your palms. As you are about to rub the unction into his neck, he sits up and pulls his t-shirt off over his head. The full expanse of his flesh is laid out in front of your hands, its perfumed warmth radiating outward. For a moment, you feel literally dizzy.

You run your hands over his smooth skin, working out the tightness in the muscles underneath. A minute goes by, then five, then ten. It is a pleasure to touch him. Skin-to-skin contact is something you have starved for, something you desperately need. And this man, this body is so beautiful. The pleasure is exquisite. Delicate. Delicious. You begin to relax.

You know better than to push it any farther; instead, you revel in the velvet touch of his skin, his warmth, his appreciative sounds as you relax his tense muscles. More than anything else, you revel in the ease of the connection, the fact that there was almost no talking at all, hardly any hesitation; you touched him to relieve his pain and he submitted to it instantly, invited more and fuller touch.

A dot of moisture forms in the corner of your eye, a tear of either of relief or happiness. Maybe you aren’t quite the untouchable thing you thought you were. At least not right here, not right now.

You warm more lotion between your hands and smooth up the long muscles that run parallel to his spine on both sides, and once more along the tops of his shoulders. Done. He sighs relief; a low, baritone groan. You lean in, and without thinking, drop a kiss on the back of his neck.

Your hands fly up and cover your mouth, and you gasp. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry. That’s just – I would always do that with my man. When I used to— When we were— I’m so sorry.” You pat the spot that you kissed, embarrassed, hoping to erase the memory from his skin.

“He must have been a lucky man,” he says, smiling and moving to stand up. He rises to his feet, a glorious height towering above you. “That feels amazing.” He stretches his arms, his shoulders, his back. He bends down into a yoga pose and breathes slowly, returns to his full height. He lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with slow breaths. He sits up, holds his arms out. “Sarah,” he says. “Thank you.”

You walk to his arms and he encloses you in a hug with a warmth and assurance that you have rarely felt in your life, and never in these past months. The flood of your senses – so much touch after so long with so little – you feel like a teenager again, overwhelmed in a sea of sensations. You struggle to get control of yourself.

He presses a kiss on your cheek. You feel the wiry beard, the thin, soft, wet lips. You lean into it, close your eyes, try to print this on your memory.

He leans backward, taking you with him. You look down on his beautiful face, your hair trailing across his mouth. You brush it out of the way, lean down, and kiss him. His response is immediate: silent warmth in his mouth, its movements delicate, slight. He breaks the kiss, traces a finger down your cheek, across your mouth, and then pulls you closer to him, inviting you deeper into the embrace. His hands move to your skirt, pushing up the cloth and caressing your thighs, reaching behind to hold onto your full, round behind. A light moan from the base of his throat. He digs his fingers into your flesh. Obeying only your own body, you join your mouth to his, ride him rhythmically, your panties dragging across the rough front of his jeans, still buttoned and zipped. The hardened ridge there grows, pulses and jumps as you slowly slide up and down.

Snaking his hands up inside your dress now, he touches – so lightly – your breasts, teases the tips of your nipples with his hands, cups their fullness with his hands. He brings your torso down to him and pushes your dress off your shoulder, exposing your left breast. He takes it softly into his mouth, flicks his tongue lightly along the ruched flesh, covers his teeth with his lips and clamps down, firmly but gently, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure through your body.

You cry out softly, ride him harder, reaching your hands into the front of his jeans, trying to pause, to unbutton them, to bring him into you, but you can’t – not now – you can’t stop, can’t break contact, transfixed by the rhythm of the gentle rise of his hips, the grinding push of your own, the slight pain and overwhelming pleasure. Fabric slides on fabric, the dampness soaking through your panties and dragging on the friction between you.

You ride faster, quicker, raising up to move your hips independently, up and down the length of his erection, pressing fully against the front of his pants.

And then you come. Hard. Pulses like heartbeats, like a heart attack, like the end of your life or of the world, waves of pleasure pound up and through your entire body. You cry out – loudly – and throw your head back, gasping for air, then lean down to him, kissing his neck, biting his ear, licking up the side of his jaw. Your thighs, your torso shake from the pleasure.

“Tell me what to do,” you whisper in his ear. “What do you want?”

He smiles, pushes the dress off your other shoulder and sucks your right nipple, pausing to slide his tongue across the hardened tip. He moves his hands down, slides one inside your panties where you are still pounding from the powerful orgasm.

“Mmm,” he says. “Can I make you come?”

“Uhhh huhhh,” is all you can say, and he flips you over onto the bed, works his hand up and down. He brings the fingers to his mouth, licks them, and touches them again to you, rubbing so lightly, then pressing faster and faster. Just as you are about to come again he drops down, sucks your clit into his mouth gently, presses his tongue into you and you come again, crying out. “Fuck! Oh, God!” You are shaking again, and almost worthless. You gasp for air, your heart pounding, you, pulsing and wet, the delicious friction of his tongue pressing again against your clit as the beats of pleasure wash through your entire body.

You move then, and with one quick move press him flat on the bed, straddling him. You press a finger to his lips. “Shh,” you say. “Don’t say anything.” You unbutton his jeans, push his pants down and kiss, lightly and slowly, down his torso, brushing your lips on every rib, down the sinewy lines to his cock.

You tease him for a moment, feeling the fading pleasure-beats in your own body, the memory of his hot wet mouth there. You lick the tip, hear him moan, see his hands grab the duvet, holding, grasping it tight. You slide down his length, taking all of him into your mouth, gripping tight with your lips and spreading your tongue up and down the shaft.

“Slower…” comes his choked command and you slow, then stop, pausing just above him, blowing cool air for just a moment until he cries out again.

You take him in again, and suck as hard as you can, working your tongue up and around, flicking it quickly at the ridge on the tip. He runs his fingers through your hair, grips tightly, moving your head gently faster, faster. He cries out and comes, his cock pulsing and pounding in your mouth. You swallow, suck slowly from the base to the tip. “All of it,” you say, your voice low and hoarse. “Give me all of it.” He is throbbing still, beats of hardness through the length of him.

He pulls up on your arms, brings you face to face with him. He traces the line of your eyebrow with his finger, kisses your forehead. You feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breaths, large and quick. “My God,” he says, smiling. “That was… amazing.” He sighs and rolls you over next to him, trails a warm, lazy hand on your hipbone, and looks like he might drift off to sleep. You raise up to your knees, bring your dress back up on your shoulders, reach behind to secure the clasp. He slides his hands around your waist, draws you to him again, kissing you slowly, deeply. “You’re… very good at that,” he says, smiling.

“So are you,” you say, leaning toward him.

A knock comes at the door, and you hear a key grinding into the lock.

“Oh, God,” he says, springing up to a sitting position. He pulls his pants up quickly, dashes across the room to grab his t-shirt and pull it over his head. He looks at you, then down to your chest. You look down and see what has caught his eye: the raw, bright pink marks and scratches from his beard all along your neck and shoulders. He takes a scarf from the neck of his jacket and throws it loosely around your neck, spreading it wide to cover the hot flesh.

A young man and slightly older woman, both dressed in black and white, come in briskly. “Oh, you’re still here. About finished?” says the red-haired woman, looking down at an iPad through thick, dark-framed glasses. She taps on its screen and frowns. “Guardian?” she asks, looking at you.

“No. Daily Telegraph,” you say, picking up a pencil and pad from the side table. “I believe I was the last on the list for today.” Gasping for breath.

“Indeed you are,” says the woman, while the man crosses over and begins talking in low tones with Tom about the details of the rest of the evening. “And now we must get our patient to the evening appearance.” You laugh at her joke. She looks at you coldly, and the man turns and stares.

“Oh, uh… I’m sorry. I’ll be going.”

You grab your purse and hurry to the door. As you’re about to reach it, the woman calls out. “Don’t forget your camera, honey.”

You look back, confused, and then you see it. Your stomach free-falls. A small camcorder, its red light shining, perched on the edge of the TV stand. Its lens pointed right at the bed.

“Uh… I…” You move toward it. “I think that may have belonged to the previous interviewer,” you say, stumbling over the syllables. You see “PROPERTY OF TIMES, LONDON” etched into the side of the tiny camera. You move to take it before anyone can see who it belongs to, wondering how quickly you can destroy the recording, when Tom takes one great step toward you and snaps up the camera in his large hand.

“No,” he says, smiling his wide, sunny smile at the woman. “No, this one’s mine. I just had it here for practice. I’m still not very good at talking at these things. Does one look right into the lens? Or does one focus only on the interviewer?” He cuts a quick glance to you, and you see the faintest hint of teasing in his eyes. “I’m just now learning how to… focus my attention.” He smiles, and holds the camera behind his back.

“Goodbye, then,” you say.

His team looks at you, not even responding, but Tom steps forward, shaking your hand again. “Goodbye, Sarah,” he says. He lowers his voice. “It was a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you say, and walk quickly out of the room and into the hallway. The bright lights of the corridor stun you as you slam back into reality. What in the world just happened?

As you move closer to the front of the hotel, your phone comes to life. There is a signal here, near the lobby, and you look with a sick feeling as your messages appear: three missed calls, seven unread texts from Patricia, ten from Carlos, two from Lane, and even – oh, God, did you really leave him a message yesterday? – even one text from Anthony.

You sink down onto a tufted leather ottoman and put your face in your hands. You take a few deep breaths to try to steady your mind and your shaking hands. You have no idea where you are anymore, or what you are doing. You feel you know nothing at all. You can no longer think; you can only feel. And right now your head is spinning and you are beginning to feel a little bit sick.


	4. Keep Calm and Carry On

Your head is spinning as you stand, resolved to find Patricia and Carlos and smooth things over as best you can. You take two steps across lobby, and then nearly fall again. You reach down, take off your tall shoes, and pad quickly across the marble tiles until you reach an alcove with a water fountain. You lean down and take a slow, cool drink.

_So much whiskey was a bad idea_ , you tell yourself. It’s obvious now, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. You remember your college days, when alcohol would just serve to amplify whatever emotion you were already feeling. If you were happy, drinking made you more so. If you were sad, a few glasses of wine would turn you into a blubbering mess. Now, apparently, when you’re mad, three shots of whiskey turns you into… well, you don’t know the word for it. Or, to be more precise, you do, but you’d rather not say.

Inside the restroom you splash water on your cheeks, avoiding your mascara. You pat your face dry and take a deep breath. You examine your eyes in the mirror. _Adultress_ , you whisper. Yes, that was true. Inasmuch as whatever just happened was sex, well, you are a cheater. _Whore._ No. That one didn’t quite fit. You feel a tender defensiveness for your own self, a compassion for the loveless life you have been living. This is definitely a complicated situation, but calling yourself names is not the way to get through it.

You stand, square your shoulders, and walk out. You see Patricia almost immediately.

“Thank _God_!” she says. “We were so worried!”

“Worried!” you say. “I thought you would be mad!”

“Mad, why ever for?”

“I lost my signal,” you say. “I only just got all of your texts and calls. Is Carlos terribly mad? That he lost his chance for his interview?”

“Oh, he didn’t lose his chance,” says Patricia. “He had to park three blocks away, and by the time he got back with the ticket, the interviews were wrapping. He’s tracked down the man he was supposed to interview, and they’re in there, now.” She points through the glass into the bar area of the hotel. She waves. You see Carlos wave back, and beside him, Tom. His face still flushed. Carlos says something to him and he throws his head back, laughs with a great open-mouth glee, all of his teeth showing. You tilt your head. You have never been more confused.

You turn back to Patricia, who is watching you very intently. “Sarah,” she says quietly.

“Yes?”

“Where did you get this scarf?”

“I…” you look down at the checked cloth still hanging around your neck. You didn’t even think of a plausible story to explain this. You haven’t thought of a story for anything.

Before you can stop her, Patricia lifts up one side of the scarf, runs it through her hands. “It’s lovely,” she says. Then, she exclaims: “ _Sarah!_ ” Her face is aghast. Her mouth wide open. “Sarah, what happened?” She runs a hand over your collarbone, still raw and red.

She drops the end of the scarf. “Did you… Did something _happen_?”

You can only nod faintly. You don’t know how to explain, what to say.

“What happened? How did it happen? Who?”

“To tell you the truth, Patricia, I’m kind of bewildered right now. Can we get a drink?” Your buzz is wearing off and it isn’t the ideal time for full consciousness.

“Yes, yes, of course. That sounds good.”

You head to the bar with Patricia, and with a small rum and Coke in front of you, you sit in the quiet outdoor seating area. You tell her about Lane, about the phone call. Your weariness. The impossibility of the situation. Your anger. The whiskey. She laughs at that part.

“You bad girl,” she laughs.

“Well, I did worse than that tonight,” you say.

“What exactly went on, Sarah?”

“Do you have a cigarette?” you say.

“Why? You don’t smoke, do you? Not anymore?”

“I think I do right now,” you say, and you take the pack that she hands you, tap out one tightly rolled stick, light it, and inhale the old familiar blue-grey smoke.

“I went to Carlos’s first interview. I figured I’d wait for you in the hall. I went in for a minute to use the bathroom – no one was in there – and when I came out, well… someone was there.”

“You’re kidding. _Tom?_ ”

You nod. “And he invited me to stay. And… I did.”

Sarah looks at you with wide eyes. She sits back in her chair, folds her hands across her stomach. You smoke nervously, your leg bouncing rapidly beneath the table.

“I want to cry, but I can’t,” you say. “I’m too… I’m overwhelmed.”

“What does this mean?” she asks.

“Honestly, Patricia, I wish I knew. But I have no idea.”

You sit for another few moments in the quiet, the only noise the sound of passing traffic, and the faint beat of the modern jazz playing inside the bar. After a moment, Patricia reaches across the table and touches the back of your hand. “Real life isn’t very neat and nice, Sarah,” she says warmly. “I’m not saying that what happened was right or wrong. But sometimes you’re going to get a little messy.”

You choke and sputter for a moment, on the smoke and on the joke that she has accidentally made. When she realizes it too, she starts laughing. Soon the two of you are shaking, laughing so hard you are almost making no sound at all.

“Not messy like _that_ ,” she says when she can finally speak again. “I just mean, sometimes life has rough edges. You’re going to figure this out. You’re going to be okay.”

You smile and squeeze her hand. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything,” she says.

“Just… don’t tell Carlos.” She nods. “I’m going back to the hotel now, I think. I need some rest. And I need to get my head on straight.”

“Sure, sure,” she says. You stand to leave. “Listen,” she says. “I talked with Carlos about it earlier, and we’d love for you to cancel your stay at the hotel for the rest of the week and stay with us. We’re leaving tomorrow morning to visit Carlos’s parents, and we won’t be back until Thursday. Just stay at the house, take some time and some quiet to figure out what you need.”

She stands too. You hug her. “That sounds great,” you say. “I’ll go to the hotel, sleep, and gather my things.”

“Sounds perfect. We’ll leave a key for you at the hotel desk on our way out of town.”

“Excellent.”

“Sarah.”

“Yes?”

“Lay off the whiskey while I’m gone.” She smiles.

“I’ll try,” you say, chuckling, walking slowly toward the door.

—

The next morning you wake up in a daze, forgetting for a moment where you are. The sun streams in, quite brightly, through the curtains. You sit up and check your phone. 11:45am. Considering the state you were in last night, that’s not so bad. Fortunately – you suppose – taking a long nap and staying up late has seemed to help you get over your jet lag more quickly than you would have expected. You still feel a little disjointed, but it’s no worse than waking up after a long night of college partying. Come to think of it, so much of what has happened in the past 24 hours reminds you of college. You rub your eyes.

There is an electric kettle in the room, but no coffeepot. You like tea, but on a morning like this you need a jolt of dark black coffee. You dress quickly and are nearly to the door when you catch sight of your face in a mirror. Dark makeup smears surround both of your eyes.

“Holy crap,” you say, taking your key and purse and walking briskly down the hall to the shared bathroom at the end. This almost seems quaint, but not quite. Mostly it seems gross and terrible to share a small bathroom with strangers. You begin to feel a deep gratitude for Patricia’s offer of a place to stay.

In the bathroom, you wash your makeup off and apply just enough lip gloss and eyeshadow so that you look alive. No use scaring the poor clerks at the coffee shop.

A half hour later you have a beautiful cup of coffee in front of you. You pick up the newspaper on the café chair beside yours. It’s the entertainment section. As you read, a realization prickles over your skin, filling you with an eerie knowledge. Your heart pounds, a sure sign that your empathic senses are about to act up. Something big is on the next page, you just know it. You flip the page and there it is: a photo of him from last night, snapped in the bar as he chats with reporters. His photo is half as tall as the entire page. You read what it says. In print, his bio is impressive; you knew he was in a few films, but you had no idea it was so many. And he was working with Spielberg? Woody Allen? It sounds like such an interesting life that you wish you’d talked more with him last night instead. Well, you almost wish it. Not quite.

That’s the puzzling thing. You feel like you ought to feel ashamed, like you ought to feel wrong and bad, and that you should be sitting in a pool of regret right now. You aren’t exactly proud of yourself, but again you feel an invisible hand restraining you from judging yourself too harshly. It is an unusual feeling; in life, you are a perfectionist. You feel failure stalking you nearly every minute of the day. But somehow here, across the Atlantic, things are so different that you have forgotten to keep track of your achievements and failures. You are sitting here in the moment for the first time in months, maybe years. You feel as if you’ve been jolted awake. It is neither bad nor good; it’s just… _more_.  Even your senses seem to be dialed up. You hear the birds in the park; you smell the scents of the café, of the delivery trucks that charge by, of the steaming cup in front of you. You feel the sun warming your hair; you feel a slight chill when a breeze blows by. You feel like you’ve been slapped in the face, like you are feeling your body for the first time in a long time. You feel like you’re finally real.

—

At Patricia’s, you slide the key in the door and push the great front door open, relishing the cool, clean quiet inside. You lock yourself in and drop your bags in the front entranceway, and move immediately to the bathroom, where you run a full hot bath and sink in, exhaling slowly as you go. Here, your thoughts do not even need to be collected. They are free to float in the air, taking no shape at all. You will deal with them when you are ready. You close your eyes.

The doorbell rings. Then, immediately, you hear a knock. You roll your eyes, hope out of the bath, and put on the bathrobe that hangs on the back of the door. At least you should go and see what it is.

At the front door, you peek out through the beveled glass window and see a courier standing there, looking around impatiently. He reaches forward and rings the doorbell again.

“Carlos Garza?” asks the man when you open the door.

“No, but I can sign for it,” you say.

The man hands you an electronic signature pad, and you scrawl out your name, eager to get back to your bath. You take the package, thank the man, and lock the door again. You turn to leave the package on the front table when you read the address. It _is_ addressed to Carlos, but there is a notation below his name: “Attn. Sarah.” Your stomach begins to jitter and shake as you walk down the hall toward the bathroom again, opening the envelope.

A single piece of paper falls out.

_Sarah,_

_Call me._

_-T_

This is followed by a string of digits, strange and foreign looking. You duck into the guest room and leave the note on the bed. _Does Carlos know? What would he have thought if he had been the one to get this package?_ You can’t even think about it right now. You run back to the bathroom, locking yourself in even there. You want nothing to disturb you as you soak in the hot water. You will deal with reality soon. You will face it even today. But not right now. Not _quite_ yet.

—

You wrap your hair in a huge white towel and tie Patricia’s bathrobe around you. You march straight to the phone and before you can hesitate, you dial the string of numbers. You hear the phone ringing, in that strange European way, sounding more like an alarm clock than a telephone.

A cheerful female voice picks up and you stumble over your words.

“Hallo?”

“Um, yes, hi. This is Sarah Hindlay, I, um, I received a message—“

“Oh, yes! Sarah.” You hear papers shuffling. “Yes, there was a release that we needed to get filled out, for the interview yesterday. Just a quick legal thing, we forgot it yesterday. If I can have your email address, I can just send it right to you.”

“Oh, well, I wasn’t… that is, I didn’t really do an interview. I was just there with my friend.”

“Sarah Hindlay, right?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Well, I have your name right here on the list. Do you mind if I just send it on, and you take a look at it?”

“Well, I suppose, but I can’t really think of why—“

“Thank you, thanks!” says the voice. “So, what is it?”

“What is what?”

“Your email address, love.”

“Oh!” you rattle it off to her and quickly hang up. Well, that was a little strange. You aren’t sure what it was really about, nor why Tom had to send you a note to get you to call just to get your email address. You aren’t thinking straight, and you realize you haven’t eaten since breakfast.

Being “home alone” in someone else’s house has its advantages. You open the refrigerator and pull out an armful of tiny plastic boxes and glass jars and tins, and after a few more trips to the pantry and the wine cabinet you have a miniature feast set in front of you: a perfect assortment. Rioja, olives, cheese, toasted wheat crackers, and half a plastic box of raspberries. You lean down and smell them. Divine.

After a while you are feeling full and a little buzzed and you stop thinking about the strange note and telephone call. You are finally starting to get over your jet lag, and as you settle into the plush canvas couch and switch on the television, you are starting to feel almost like yourself.

You get up to refill your wine and as you pass the stairway, on impulse you leap up, grab your laptop, and take it back down to the couch with you. You dash into the kitchen and slosh your wine glass full of the deep red wine. Back on the couch, you pry the computer open and start it up. You won’t check your work email, but it won’t hurt to catch up on personal email for a while, and see if there’s anything new on Facebook. You didn’t post anything about your trip – you want it to be “under the radar” as much as possible – but it’s always fun to spy on other people.

While it starts up, you flip through the channels. BBC 1, 2, 3, 4. How many are there? You settle on a show that sounds soothing and looks to be a documentary about the Channel Islands.

Online, the normal things are appearing: your cousins took their kids to Myrtle Beach, your high school best friend is still in Italy, and your uncle always has a new political cause to rant about. You click “like” on a couple of your cousin’s beach pictures and switch over to your email.

There is a lovely long note from your aunt, but you will read it later. It takes a lot of concentration and you don’t have that right now. A payment reminder for your credit card, and then something strange from the airline, asking about your return trip, which you haven’t booked yet. You click on it to read further.

»Sarah?

A chat appears in the corner of your screen. You don’t recognize the user name.

<Who is it?

»It’s Tom.

Your breath stops.

<Really?

»Yes. It’s Tom, from last night.

You choke back on a laugh. As if that is the only way you would remember him.

<Hi.

»I hope you don’t mind me contacting you this way. Is this all right?

<Yes, it’s fine. No worries.

 

<What’s up?

»I wanted to let you know, urgently, that I am so sorry about that camera.

<Ok

»The man from the Times left it. I gave it back to him this morning, but I kept out the memory card. He hasn’t said anything about it.

<Oh, well, that’s good, I think.

»It seemed like the best choice ;-)

Did he just type a winking smiley face at me?

<So I guess all of that really happened, then, huh?

»Yes, it did. It was an unusual night.

<Definitely.

He didn’t type anything else.

<And now you’re trying to decide if you should give me the speech about “Look, it was fun, but it was just a one-time thing.”

»Or you’re getting ready to make that speech to me.

<No, no, I can’t give that speech. I have tried a few times, but I just can’t.

»It’s a terrible speech, don’t you think?

<Depends if it needs to be made.

<Listen, dude, I’m a little buzzed right now and I don’t even really know you, so I’m just going to be really honest, and if it freaks you out, you can just disconnect and we will literally never run into each other again.

»You mean like a confession?

<Something like that.

»Go for it. I’d love to know more about this mystery woman.

<I don’t want to fall in love with you.

»Okay.

<I don’t want to fall into your arms or ride into the sunset or any of that other bullshit.

<And to be really honest – and I’m talking half-bottle-of-wine-honest here—

»Yes?

<Last night was freaking amazing. I haven’t felt that way in years.

<But I’m a pragmatic woman. I’ll make you a deal.

»Okay?

<I’ll give you your scarf, you give me the memory card from the camera, and we’ll call it even. You don’t even have to see me. I’ll drop the scarf off somewhere.

<You there?

»No

<Yes, you are

»No, I mean, no deal.

<I’m not going to do anything with the video. I promise. I’ll destroy it in front of you.

»No. It’s not that.

<Then what?

»Sarah, can I tell my own confession?

<Well, maybe. You might want to get some wine first.

»Wine. Wine is a good idea. I have some wine. Brb

»Cabernet Sauvignon, a bottle I got last Christmas and still haven’t opened. It’s quite good. May I confess now?

<Of course.

»You might think I’m strange, but…

»I wanted to talk with you last night.

»You there?

<Yes. What do you mean you wanted to talk to me?

»I mean after, after the handlers came in the room, I wanted to find you again. In the bar.

»I just wanted to chat with you. You seemed like a good talker.

<LOL

»What do you mean LOL

<Trying to think how to say this delicately

<How could you tell what kind of talker I was? We barely spoke a word.

»You had a kind voice. And you were very kind to me.

<Well

»No, I mean it. I’m not talking about in bed, Sarah. I’m talking about the rest. About my headache and your sweetness.

Suddenly a lump rises in your throat. What is this?

<It seemed like you were in pain.

»I was, and you fixed my headache.

»(drinking more wine)

»and you were so generous

»and you didn’t ask for anything back

»and that is really rare in my life right now.

»did I scare you away?

<No, just not sure what to say.

<It’s quite a compliment.

»well, it’s true. So that’s my confession.

»so I won’t just leave the memory card with a secretary.

»I want to see you in person, and talk to you, and hand it to you myself.

»Can we?

<Yes, that’s fine. It sounds good.

»I’m relieved to hear you mention the scarf, though.

»I really want it back.

»I love that scarf

<It’s a nice scarf ;-)

<Why don’t you meet me here at my friend’s house, and we can just walk? The same address as the package you sent. The same as Carlos Garza.

»That sounds fantastic.

<Tomorrow?

»Rather early, if that’s all right with you.

<How early?

»8:00, if you can?

<Yes, I can do that. I’d better stop drinking now.

»No. One more glass. Cheers.

<Cheers.

*chat disconnected

Well, that was unexpected.


	5. A Morning Walk

He meets you on your doorstep at 8:02am. “You’re late,” you tease, holding out the scarf to him. He tucks it under his arm, and holds his palm out flat, presenting you with the tiny SD card. You pick it up, pull Patricia’s lighter out of your purse, and carefully hold its metal prongs in the orange and purple flame. It sizzles and deforms, and becomes very hot.

“Ahh! Ouch,” you cry, laughing, and drop it to the steps. He steps on it with one large shoe, twists his foot back and forth. You pick up the remains and toss them in the bin on the way out of the garden gate.

“Well, that was easy,” he says.

“Done,” you say.

“Still up for a walk?”

“Sure.”

It’s a beautiful day today, and it feels more like spring than summer. His pace is quick, but not too quick.

“I’m glad you wanted to walk,” he says.

“Well, it only seems fair,” you say.

“I was afraid you would think I was strange, pouring my heart out like a loon last night.”

“Oh, I didn’t even think about it. Wine talks a lot, you know.” You smile.

He pauses. “It does. But I was being sincere.”

“Oh, I know, dear. I know you were. I didn’t mean it that way. Just… I don’t mind it. I don’t mind if you’re real with me.”

“See, that’s the thing I was trying to say last night. That’s what I meant. For some reason, I feel as if I can be ‘real’ with you, whatever that might mean. Why is that, I wonder? You said it yourself, we barely know each other.”

“Well,” you say.

“Well?”

“Is it too early in the morning for another confession?”

“Never too early,” he says, smiling.

“I… Oh, God, I can’t believe what I’m about to say. You’re going to think I’m crazy. You’re going to just turn on your heel and walk away from me, as fast as you can.”

“No, no,” he says.

“I’m… I’m sort of… I’m kind of a little bit psychic. Empathic.”

“Oh?” his eyebrows rise.

“I know, it sounds so crazy. But it’s not like a crazy thing. I don’t try to do it, it just happens sometimes.”

“Like, how do you mean?”

“Like, I will suddenly just know something about someone, and I won’t know how I know it. But I can always tell when it’s my sixth sense. I feel a certain way. Heart pounding, skin prickling; I just know.”

“Really. How fascinating,” he says. “What an interesting thing.”

“Like right now, see that girl? Walking in the crosswalk?”

“Blonde, with the pink leggings and huge sunglasses?”

“That’s her. Right now, she’s terrified of disappointing her father. To the point where she can hardly eat. I am so sure of it that I would put money on it. I don’t know her, I don’t technically know anything about her, but I am more sure of that fact than I am about many things.”

“Fascinating,” he says again.

“So maybe that’s why you feel comfortable with me,” you say. “You know that I know about you, and I don’t run away.”

“Hmm. So, have you read me? Or whatever it is you do?”

“I have. A little. It happens without me knowing, at first. Like, when I first saw you at the hotel, I heard you tell someone on the phone that you had a headache. But as I was going to leave, I could feel that it was getting worse. I could feel the tension under your scalp and under your eyes. That’s why I sort of squished on your pressure points.”

“Huh,” he says.

You walk half a block further.

“So, are you reading me now?” he asks.

“Not really,” you say.

“Will you?” he asks.

“Are you being serious? You really want me to?”

“Sure, why not?” he smiles. “I don’t think we can ever really see ourselves as we are. I would love an outside view.”

“Well, all right,” you say, your voice shaking.

“Can you do it now?”

“It’s easier if we’re sitting. Less distraction.”

You walk until you reach a sidewalk café, and you take a seat at a white, wrought-iron table. He sits opposite, in the dappled shade of a tree. The waiter comes, and you both order tea.

“So?”

You study him carefully. “All your life you’ve been very deeply concerned with not disappointing anyone.”

He frowns in thought. “True.”

“At times, you feel the weight of it, strongly. Keenly. You wish you could be free of it.”

He nods.

“Some days, you wake up, determined to throw it off. You do as you please. You live in defiance to this sense of strong, heavy responsibility. But it always comes back.”

“Always,” he says, nodding and staring at the table in front of him.

“You feel sometimes that you have the Midas Touch – that everything around you turns to gold.”

“But not myself. I’m still flesh,” he says.

“And gold is cold.” You laugh. “Sorry, I’m not trying to make jokes.”

“No, Sarah. No, you’re right.” He puts his head in his hands for a moment, runs his fingers through his hair slowly, thoughtfully. He sits back up again.

“Do you want me to go on? Or is this too heavy? I can stop.”

“No, go on, if there’s more to say.”

“Just one thing,” you say. “Under it all you’re afraid. Just a little. Just slightly afraid, a little bit every day, that no one will ever come close enough to escape the Midas touch. That everything around you will be perfect and golden, and there you will be, alone and made of plain skin, and no one will ever really understand it.”

“And yet, how can I complain? Is it like, ‘Everything I touch becomes pure gold. Feel sorry for me?’” He shakes his head. “Sarah, I had two very short relationships, one right after the other, this past year. What you’re saying is… it couldn’t be more true. They were lovely, beautiful, good women, both of them, but they both left after only a few weeks. One got a publisher for her novel, the week after she left me, and the other got a fellowship to study dance in Paris, the very same day we called it off. They both said, independently of one another, that they felt like somehow I had given them the confidence they needed to move on and be successful. I feel like… I feel like I’m cursed with being a blessing.”

It is a heavy thought. It sits in the air for a moment.

“She’s coming, though,” you say. “I can see her. There is someone who will cut through all that.”

“Someone immune to the Midas touch?”

“Even that. Yes.”

He sits back, puts his hands behind his head. “God, I hope so. I’m afraid to hope so. I don’t think it can be so. But if I’m honest, I have to say I want it.”

“I wish I knew exactly who, so I could tell you, dear, but she is coming.”

He sighs.

“She’s got a simple name. Something like Emily. Amanda. Elizabeth.”

“Or, like Sarah?”

“No, not Sarah. It’s not me, dear. I know it’s not me.” You swallow. “I’m sure of it.”

He frowns, looks down, crosses his leg over the other knee. The wind blows the tree and the leaf shadows dance across his face.

“Something simple. I think with an E.”

“What’s she like, then?” he asks.

“She’s tall. Just a tad over average. She’s elegant. She’s very beautiful. She has an inner strength and she has a stability within herself.”

“Hmm. Sounds very good.”

“She’s not going to need you desperately the way some… the way other people might. She’s going to have her own inner resource. But she’s going to love you. And she’s going to be loyal.”

“That’s wonderful,” he says, without a trace of irony.

“The most loyal woman you will know. And she isn’t going to be bowled over by you. Not the way everyone else is.”

He laughs bashfully, blushes.

“She’s not going to be as impressed by you as the other people around her are. That’s how you’ll know it’s her. She kind of won’t give a shit. She’ll love you deeply, but it will come from a place of security. And you won’t be able to charm your way out of being real with her.”

He laughs louder now, throwing his head back, his tongue pushing past his teeth.

“She’ll see to the real you, and she’ll stay with you. You’ll see.”

“Is that a promise?”

“As near to a promise as I can make,” you say.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s… that’s rather amazing, isn’t it.”

“I suppose. Mostly it’s weird. I feel all jazzed up and shaky now.” You laugh nervously. “It takes a lot out of me.”

“I’ve so much to think about now,” he says. “But I feel better somehow, having heard that.” He reaches over, pats the back of your hand, then lets his hand rest there. He absentmindedly traces around your knuckles with his fingertips. “Thank you, Sarah.”

The tea arrives.

You spend the rest of the hour barely speaking, in a kind of hushed, companionable silence. You watch the passers-by, feel the springlike breeze and watch the bright green leaves dance in the trees overhead. The waiter brings the check, and you look at your phone to check the time, although it hardly matters what time it is anyway. You feel like you’ve entered a different dimension, where time and space are only tiny details that matter no more than the color of someone’s socks.

You reach in your purse, but he beats you to it, handing a card to the waiter. He looks at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to run. I’ve got a pile of meetings this afternoon.”

“Okay,” you say brightly, smiling.

The waiter brings back a receipt, and he signs it quickly, tucking the card back in his wallet.

“Thanks for the tea,” you say.

“My pleasure,” he says, waving his hand. “I’m happy to.” He pauses. “I don’t know what my schedule really is for the rest of the week,” he says. “They have me hopping here and there. I’m fairly certain I’m staying in town, but even that, I’m not sure.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” you say. Perhaps too cheerfully.

“What I mean is, I want you to know how much I appreciate you talking with me. I don’t take it for granted. I don’t assume that you’ll come whenever I call.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest. Something about his way, his manner. It reaches past the cold, brittle parts of yourself, frozen solid in the past few years with Lane. You’re thawing.

You stand. “Which way are you going?” you ask.

“This way,” he says, pointing down the sidewalk. “Tube station in three blocks or so. You?”

“Same.”

“Walk with me, then,” he says.

You stand and gather your things. He picks his scarf up off the chair, folds it up and tucks it under his right arm again. As you walk beside him, he reaches out and takes your right hand in his left, lacing his fingers with yours in a gesture both casual and intimate. Your arms swing in time together, your steps mirroring each other. You near the station. He stands at the entrance, near the handrail, where the stairs go down into the sidewalk. You hear the squeak of train brakes and a rush of air comes up from below. He holds your hand tightly, pulls you toward him, and kisses you. Slow, sure, and deep. It seems to reach your toes. He delicately teases the edge of your lip with his tongue, but keeps his hand holding yours. Only your hands and lips touch. He breaks the kiss, then presses his lips softly on yours for just a moment longer. The stubble along his chin scratches your bottom lip. You feel your pulse buzzing, your mouth throbbing against his. For a moment you can’t breathe. He pulls away.

“I’ll see you, Sarah,” he says. He squeezes your hand and then lets go, turns to dance down the steps two at a time. He is gone in the darkened crowd already.


	6. Gravity

You spend the rest of the day touristing around London, and you have a genuinely good time. The nice weather holds, and you make it to Westminster and spend a lazy afternoon on the London Eye. At the top, you feel like you can see the whole world.

You resist thinking about what happened that morning, will yourself not to ruminate over all of the contradictions. The impermanence of your relationship, its stops and starts, and the deep pull you feel toward him, in spite of all of the warnings of your logical mind. You are perhaps a little too prone to reverie, and today you work to stop thinking, to focus on the simple act of walking from one place to the next.

By 4pm you are deliciously, comfortably sleepy. You splurge on a cab ride back to Patricia’s. Three texts come in from Lane, and you ignore them all. You’ll read them later. Today, you’re floating free in a warm, salty ocean of forgetfulness. You are on vacation from yourself, and it’s restoring you more quickly than anything else could.

When you arrive at the house, you see a carton of groceries on the front step. Grapes, milk, cookies, turkey, bread, and a bottle of what looks like very expensive wine. God bless Patricia, you think, carrying the box inside.

You text her when you get inside.

> >Thanks for the groceries! It’s a night in for me.

She responds quickly:

[ You’re welcome, dear! Sweet dreams.

She texts a picture of herself with Carlos and the boys, on what appears to be a boardwalk overlooking an Spanish beach. Behind her, there are bright red and white umbrellas, figures laying in the sand. The water is a gorgeous greenish blue.

You heat some butter in a pan to make a grilled sandwich, and as the butter begins to sizzle, you open your laptop for your daily email check. You have enjoyed being offline lately, checking in only once a day. You place the bread in the pan, pile up shreds of turkey and thick-cut slices of Gouda, with another slice of bread on top.

You finish cooking the sandwich and you take it and your laptop up to your room. After your day of walking, you are feeling supremely lazy, and you revel in the freedom to be as sloth-like as you please. You eat the sandwich, the gooey cheese stretching out with every bite. You dust the crumbs off your hands and put the empty plate on the bedside table. On your laptop, you read the news, scroll through Facebook, and click to your email again. After reading and replying to your aunt, your eyelids feel heavy, and you push the laptop to the side and let the delicious sleep overtake you.

You wake up at dusk. You hear cars honking from the street, and the window you left cracked is admitting a cool, almost cold breeze. You hear a light pinging sound. You look down and see your laptop, still open. Its screen has gone dark. You tap the touchpad and re-enter your desktop password.

The screen flashes bright. Your email screen. And at the bottom corner, the chatbox again.

Tom.

»Sarah, are you there?

Then, time-stamped twenty minutes later:

»Sarah?

You look at your watch. The last message was only four minutes ago. You are typing in “Hello, I’m here,” when another chat appears.

»Signing off soon, just checking one last time, are you there?

-Yes.

»Hi! Hello.

-Hi, Tom. :-)

»Listen, I wanted to talk about today.

-I know, I’m sorry. I don’t usually go into that much detail with people. It freaks them out. And you know, you don’t have to worry about the kiss.

»No, no. I wanted to say thank you.

-Oh

»So, thank you

-You’re welcome? For what, exactly?

»For sharing your insight. You were dead-on, you know.

-Well, I’m glad to hear that. I really meant it, dear.

-Anytime.

» I’ve been incredibly rude. And I wanted to apologise.

-Rude?

»I go on and on about how everyone wants things from me, and then what do I do, but let you talk about me for the whole morning, and I don’t ask you a single question about yourself.

-Oh, that’s okay. There’s not much to tell.

»That’s hard to believe, darling.

-You type “darling” too? You don’t just say it all the time? LOL

»Ha ha, yes, I type it too, sometimes. Darling.

»Anyway, you say “dear” all the time, you know.

-True enough.

»True enough… what?

-True enough, dear.

»That’s more like it. ;-)

-Well, I’m pretty boring. What do you want to know?

»You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I don’t mean to push you.

-No, no, it’s all right. I’ve been a bit too tight-lipped lately.

»Go get a glass of wine, if you want, first. ;-)

-Not yet. I’ll wait on that. But thanks for making me feel like an alcoholic.

»Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.

-No, I’m the one who’s kidding. Kidding again. I guess that’s the first thing you should know. I have a weird, sarcastic sense of humor.

»Here, we just call that dry humour. It’s the only kind of humour that the English have.

-LOL

»We rarely LOL

-You LOL all the time, sir

»LOL

-See? Ha.

»Can I ask you a real question, now?

-Of course. Always.

»What happened to you?

-What do you mean?

»Sarah, I’m not an empath, but I can tell. Something’s wrong.

-Yes.

»Tell me. If you want.

-I do want, it’s just

»What?

-I have this thing about burdening other people with my problems. It’s not your burden to carry, so I don’t want to give it to you.

»I know it’s not my burden. That’s why I can listen.

-Well, all right. I’m jumping in. And without wine. God help me.

-The first thing might make you a little mad.

»Oh?

-I’m married.

»Oh.

-It’s not working out. I’m pretty sure it’s over.

»Oh, god.

-It has nothing to do with you. It was already over before I came here.

»You’re not just saying that?

-No, I’m sure.

»What happened, then?

-It’s hard to say where it went wrong. We both work a lot, and he just sort of got, like…

-sorry, can’t think of the word

-Uninterested. Bored. Done.

»Bored with what?

-Bored with me.

-Ah, shit.

-Now I’m crying. Fuck.

-Hold on, let me get a handkerchief. brb

»Sarah

-All right, I’m back.

-He just checked out. I wasn’t enough to keep him interested. That’s really what it comes down to. And I have to decide if whatever is left over is enough for me. For the rest of my life.

»Dear God.

-I know, it’s super heavy. I’m sorry.

»That can’t really be it. There has to be something else.

-What do you mean?

»I mean, I don’t know you that well, but we have… met.

-Ha. Yes. That is a true statement. LOL

»Sarah, you’re not boring.

»You’re interesting.

-At first I am.

-This is how it happens.

-People love me when they first get to know me.

-And then it just ends.

»Well if it’s any consolation I don’t love you. ;-)

-LOL

»In fact, you make me feel insecure and ridiculous. You make me feel like I haven’t done anything with my life.

-How could that *possibly* be true?

»You have such an air of confidence.

-Are you fucking kidding me?

-Excuse my French.

»You have the way of someone who has all her ducks in a row. Me? I feel like I’m just making it all up as I go along. In fact I know I am.

-Just… one more time. Are you *actually* serious?

»Dead serious, darling.

-I feel like a train wreck. How is it that I come across that way?

»”Something in the way she moves.”

-Not funny.

»Not joking.

-I feel like my life is falling apart.

-I can’t make him love me.

-I took it seriously. Being married. I meant all my vows.

-But now I’m starting to not care. Like, I don’t care what happens with us. I feel like time apart would be good. Is good.

»Perspective is always a good thing.

-I think so.

-Anyway, it isn’t even his fault. It’s mine.

»How?

-I think I just want too much.

»What do you mean?

-I mean, I’m always yearning for something else. More. I always want more than what I have. Sometimes it keeps me up at night.

»Worrying?

-No, wanting. Like, I always liked writing, but it’s like lately, I just *have* to write. Like, if I don’t write, it wakes me up at night. I end up awake in the middle of the night writing these crazy essays and poems.

-Wanting more out of love. Wanting more sex. Wanting more life.

»That doesn’t sound bad.

-But there’s no room in my life for all that wanting. I’ve been trying to put it aside.

»Put what aside?

-Writing. Late nights. Trying to get him to sleep with me. All that stupid yearning. Everything.

»You can’t do that.

-As well do I know, sir. Leaving it behind is all I want in the world, and I can’t do it.

»No, I mean you shouldn’t put it aside. Art. Writing. Love.

-It doesn’t have a purpose, though.

»It *is* a purpose.

-I guess.

»You’re talking to an actor, you know.

-Oh, damn. Sorry. No offense.

»No offence taken. But listen to what I’m saying. I don’t even have a tangible product that I create. My whole career is based on expressing feelings that don’t even belong to me.

-Hmm

»Maybe writing is that way for you, too. In some way.

-Maybe.

-So anyway, it’s like a marriage + career crisis. I’m totally lost.

»You have to just go for it.

»There’s no other way.

»You’ll live the rest of your life wondering.

-Maybe I suck, though.

»I haven’t read your writing, darling, but I know you’re very insightful and thoughtful. That counts for a lot when it comes to writing.

-Do you write?

»A little. It’s a secondary thing. It isn’t my passion.

-You’re probably better at it than I am.

»But do you feel like you need it?

-Yes

»Like you’ll die without it?

-…yes

»Then don’t give it up

»Keep trying

»Keep writing

-You make a good point, sir

»I like to write but I don’t need it

»Not like I need a stage or a camera and an audience and all of that

»Don’t you dare give it up.

-Ok. I won’t.

»Good.

»Don’t make me use ALL CAPS on you. Because I will.

-LOL OK

»Hey

-Yeah?

»I’m feeling restless. Want to go out? See London at night?

-You know, I think I would love to. Fuck it. I was all settled in but I feel good now, too. Let’s go out.

»Fantastic

-Where?

»Dinner first.

-This late?

»It’s not late at all. Not by my standards.

-Um, where are we going? What should I wear?

»Whatever you want. We’re staying off the beaten path.

-Please say you know a great dive bar. I think I need to get hammered and sing some karaoke or something.

»I know a great place. No karaoke but plenty of beer.

-Even better. I shouldn’t do karaoke tonight, anyway. I’m singing opera tomorrow.

»You’re what?

-Sorry. Kidding again. Weird sense of humor. Nine o’clock too early?

»Not at all. Thirty minutes. I’ll see you then.

*chat disconnected

You get dressed quickly, in an a-line black dress and low heels, with a grey blazer thrown over it. You feel the promise of fun in the air, and you realize it has been a long time since you had any of that, either. You make a quick pot of coffee and chug two cups before you push out the door.

In the dark, you don’t see him. You run right into his chest. Your nose jams into your face and your eyes water. It seems familiar.

“Oh, my God!” you say.

“What, darling?”

“It’s you! It was you!”

“What was?”

“The morning I arrived. I was so jet lagged, and I walked down the sidewalk, and it was you who ran into me. Or, I ran into you. While you were running.”

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh, yes! Yes, I remember.”

“Strange.”

“You know? Nothing’s a surprise anymore,” he says, tucking your arm under his. You walk into the night together.

—

“So, what is this called again?”

“Kimchi and pork,” he says, his mouth full.

You lean over and take another bite of spicy meat in its soft, steamed roll. “Mmm. This is fabulous.”

“I love Korean food,” he says. “Sometimes it’s hard to find. But this cart is usually here on Wednesday nights, so I thought it would be worth a try.”

“Good lord, this is good.” You finish and sit back on the bench, wipe your mouth and smile. “My breath is like a dragon’s,” you say, laughing.

“It’s all right. Mine, too.”

“Totally worth it.”

“Very much so.”

You trip down the sidewalk, halfway regretting the heels you put on, but not fully. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window and you have to admit, even to yourself, you actually look pretty good. Or, at least, your legs look long. After days of constant exercise, you feel just a little leaner, too.

You trip on a sidewalk crack and laugh as you fall over onto him, grip his arm.

“Steady,” he says.

“I’m fine,” you say. “What next?”

“Music,” he says. He smiles at you and raises his eyebrows. “Dancing.”

“Perfect.”

You trip down a few more blocks and turn into a dark alcove. Down a few steps is a grimy door. He opens it and you walk in. It’s a live music venue. Smoke blows in through the door, and hangs heavy in the air. Colored lights flash. It smells stale, sweaty. It’s full of people. Tom juts his chin up in a greeting to the bouncer, and the two of you walk in with no further comment.

A band is setting up, and they look familiar, although you can’t place them. You can hardly hear anything over the sound check, so you motion over to the bar and get two pints. You hand one to him, shrugging. He smiles and raises the glass to you. You take a sip, the tiny foam bubbles bursting on your lips.

The music starts up and you recognize the song – “Sound of Muzak” by Porcupine Tree.

“Oh my god!” you say into the din. “I saw them! Years ago. In California.”

“What?” yells Tom, pointing to his ear.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, shaking your head and smiling, throwing your hands into the air and swaying with the music. It’s not the kind of music you usually go for, but there’s something about it, it seems to make sense to you here in your strange holiday from your real life. The sounds reverberate along the walls, in and out of your ears like someone crashing cymbals right next to your head. It’s odd and futuristic sounding. Metallic. Strangely lulling. You finish your beer and dance back and forth, slowly. From behind you, Tom puts his arm across your chest and pulls you close to him. You move against him in time with the music. He moves your hair from your neck, presses a kiss there. You turn up to look at him. His eyes look heavy-lidded. There is a drive there, a determination that you have not seen before. He takes your face in both his hands and kisses you, hard. There is an urgency in his mouth — something dark — and desire quickly takes over your mind. It pushes logical, intellectual thought to the margins of your mind, then eclipses it entirely. He kisses you so hard that you are bending over backwards, and have to reach out to brace your arm against the back of a chair. He puts his arms around your waist, pulls you to him, pressing you to him so tightly that you almost cannot breathe.

Your heart races. You have to get out of here. Get him out of here. He kisses you again and you feel dizzy, disoriented. “Let’s go,” you whisper in his ear. You run to the door of the club together, then out into the street where he hails a cab, his breath rapid and rough.

In the backseat of the little black car he presses into you again. You turn to the side and hook one leg around him. He pushes the skirt of your dress up your thigh, digging his fingers into the thick flesh.

Now he is kissing your neck, the rough stubble scratching from just below your earlobe to your collarbone. He slides a hand over your left breast, gripping it tightly. From the lust-haze you are vaguely aware of a sound. Your phone. You reach to the pocket of your jacket, fumble until you silence it.

He runs his tongue along the edge of your earlobe and you let out a cry. Your breath is heavy. You pull him closer to you, feel the full weight of him pressing on you. You moan. You need him. Now.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers in your ear, then bites gently on your neck. You cry out his name, then a whimper you cannot stifle.

“Mmm,” he says, tickling the thin skin at the hollow of your throat with his rumbling, low voice. Your own sounds are becoming impossible to control now, and you look nervously at the back of the cabbie’s head. He is staring, quite intently, at the road ahead. And then you hear another sound. Like a disembodied voice. You hear it again, but this time it is saying your name. Yelling.

You sit up suddenly, pressing a hand to Tom’s chest. “Hold on,” you say. He looks up at you, one of your dress-front buttons in his teeth. He doesn’t let go but only stares up at you with his endless eyes.

“Sarah!” screams the voice.

Oh, God. It’s your phone. You scramble and pull it from your pocket. It was Lane calling, and instead of ignoring the call, you answered it. On speakerphone. He has heard… everything.

You leave it on speaker. “Lane,” you say.

You hear the cabbie choke, whether from laughter or something else, you’re not sure.

“Sarah! What in the fuck is going on!”

“Hey, man,” says Tom, an edge to his voice. You hold up your hand to silence him.

“Lane.”

“Sarah, whose name are you screaming, and what in hell is going on right now? Where are you? You know, we’re going to have to deal with this at some point. You can’t just run away forever.”

“I’m not the one who checked out of our marriage for the past year,” you say, cringing at the awkwardness of having this conversation here, now. You won’t switch the speaker off, though. You are facing this without fear, if you possibly can.

“I’m not the one who can’t control herself!” Lane yells. “You’re like an animal. I’m glad you never had my kids!”

“Shut UP!” you yell. “SHUT UP NOW! I never hid who I was! I never hid what I wanted! You knew who I was when you married me!” You are crying now. Sobbing. Choking.

“You know what? I’m going to make it easy on you.” Lane’s voice is quiet, eerie, calm. “I’m going to hang up on you, and you go fuck whoever that is with you. And you might as well enjoy it, because I am going to end you when you get back here. I will hang you up to dry in court. Don’t think I won’t. Go ahead and fuck him, and then I’ll fuck you over when you get here.”

You fumble with the phone, trying to hang up before he does.

“Slut.” It’s the last word you hear from him before your thumb hits the right button and the call is disconnected.

You look up at Tom, his eyes wide and rimmed with red. You open your mouth to speak, to apologize, to explain, but nothing comes out. Instead, you curl up, collapse like a child or an animal, just like Lane said. Sobbing silently, your tears rolling off the fabric of his jeans. Your crying is ragged now. Loud. Ugly. The sounds you make are guttural, like something mourning, dying. You can’t control it at all. You weep and cling strangely to his kneecap, then hold your arms to your chest, gasping for breath. Tom lays his hand gently on your shoulder, smooths your hair slowly with the back of his hand. He speaks to the driver, but you can’t follow their words. You try to speak yourself, but you can’t. You can only cry the racking, broken-glass sobs that you thought you were done with when you grew out of your teens. But the pain, the wound is too fresh. You can only cry. When the car pulls to a stop, you are completely spent.


	7. Mon Amie

Tom pushes the car door open forcefully and the air that rushes in from the outside is quite cool, almost cold. He gets out of the car, then looks back in, holding out his hand to you. You take it and he pulls you out onto a sidewalk, a street that is almost deserted. There are a few couples walking, and a slouching pair of teenage boys carrying skateboards.

You stand to your full height, and immediately bend over again, retching into the gutter. Your face is still wet with tears, your nose is running, and hot bitter bile rises in your throat, making you gag again.

“Come on, love,” says Tom, softly, after a moment. He grasps you under your arms, from behind, helping you stand up. His voice sounds almost maternal now. You realize you must be in a terrible state to elicit such a caressing tone.

You look up and see a marquee lined in twinkling bulbs. A movie theatre. You walk in, following behind him. A small but opulent lobby: red and gold carpet, wallpaper, and furnishings. Wall sconces that look like they are from the 1920s are placed at intervals along the lobby wall, sending a wash of light upwards from each one. One attendant, wearing a red vest and black bowtie, stands in the lobby with a push broom: an old woman with a mop of wavy black hair.

In the theatre, you sit on the plush seat, lean on the polished wood armrest. You whisper to Tom that you need to use the restroom, and you stand up and run out as silently as you can.

At the mirror in the ladies’ room, you try to give yourself a pep talk, but as you stare at your face you begin to feel that Lane was right. Every word. You are avoiding reality, you are out of control, you are useless; you are an animal.

“Slut,” you say at your reflection.

Just then a toilet flushes and you panic, running out of the bathroom before whoever it was has a chance to see you, the crazy girl who talks to herself in the movie theatre bathroom.

When you get back to the theatre, the lights have gone dim. An usher shines the way with a flashlight. You scoot in next to Tom and he lays his arm across your shoulders. “Are you all right, then?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, a bit of your courage returning. “Or at least, I will be soon.”

“Good,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. The lights go off completely, and the screen lights up.

“Why are we here?” you ask, in a low tone.

“I come here when I’m lost,” he whispers in your ear. “It’s a good place to clear the mind, when it’s too late for a run.”

“Ah,” you say.

“Cinema is my church.” He smiles. Light from the screen dances across his face.

The movie is something French, black and white, without subtitles. You don’t understand a single word of it. You can’t tell when they are saying “love” and when they are saying “friend,” and you vainly attempt to grasp the story, which weaves like an old thread through the adventures of a young boy and an old woman. Tom understands it all, even laughs drily a few times.

While you can’t understand the words, still the story takes you outside of yourself, pushes a distance between you and the phone call, the music, the car. You begin to see your life as if it were a movie: the characters, the places, the dramatic scenes; the denouement. You were shredded when you came in, but as the boy on the screen continuously pulls up his socks and pulls a wooden duck behind him on a string, and as the old woman slowly crochets an afghan, you feel the absurdity of all of it. You feel like you have been released from the dreaded seriousness of your situation. It is no longer a wild, Greek tragedy that your marriage is ending. It is a sad thing, and an angry thing, but in the end, it is just a thing.

It is late, and the movie is long. You are sleepy, but your eyes are riveted on the screen. Tom leans forward, takes his jacket off and throws it over the armrest you share. He leans his head in your lap, and his eyes close. Absentmindedly you stroke his hair as he sleeps softly, pillowed on the folded leather.

The movie ends inexplicably, when a flock of seagulls takes off at the same moment that the boy releases a balloon in the park. The birds fly with the balloon until they reach the ocean. There, the balloon begins to shrink, and start its slow descent from the sky. The birds fly on, past the cliffs, and the balloon sinks down with the setting sun.

When the reel ends the lights come up, bright. Tom scrunches his eyelids together, then opens them slowly, looking a bit confused. “Hey,” he says.

You smile down at him. “Do you always sleep in church?” you ask.

“Mmm, not always,” he says. He rolls over on his side and hugs your waist, burrowing his face into your stomach. An older couple walking out of the theatre stare openly at the two of you, frowning, and you choke back a giggle. He looks up at you again. “I suppose we’d better go,” he says.

Out on the sidewalk again, it is a clear, cool night. The sky is pitch black overhead, and the wind blows refreshingly down the long, wide street.

“Walk or drive?” he asks.

“Walk. Definitely,” you say.

He pauses, hooks an arm in yours and looks at you, eyebrows slightly raised. “Yours or mine?” he says, softly.

“Whichever is closer, I suppose,” you say. Your heart races.

Striding down the city blocks, the two of you barely speak. You lean into him, holding onto his wiry, muscled arm, stepping into and back out of pools of light from the lampposts. He pauses abruptly in the middle of a block. “Here it is,” he says. He lets go of your arm and strides quickly up a set of grey steps, puts a key in the thick black door and swings it open. Warm light shines from the entryway. You square your shoulders and hop up the steps, past him, and step inside.

—

He closes and locks the door behind you. You hear his keys hit the floor and he takes you by the shoulders, pushing you gently, walking you backwards until you press into a wall. He leans an arm on the wall over your head, bends down and kisses you. Your lips soften beneath his, and you open your lips slightly, invite a deeper kiss. He was pressing and urgent earlier, in the car, but now his movements take on a sort of torpid slowness, a deliberate, careful pace that begins to drive you mad. His kiss is heavy with meaning, with weight. He slides his hands incrementally around your waist and down your back, pressing your body into his. You reach up and trace your fingers along the back of his neck, run your fingernails through the ends of his hair.

He kisses harder now, drawing his hands up your sides. He cups your face in his hands, looks in your eyes, and there you can see yourself, following the great floating balloon, leaping off the cliff with the flock of birds, soaring with them out over the ocean.

—

You fall back on the bed, kick off your shoes, and roll your stockings down. He pulls on the toes of them and the smoky nylon slides off. He lets them float down to the floor. Over you he is just a silhouette, an outline against the light from the other room that shines through the doorway. He leans in closer to you, and your skin jumps and tingles with the touch of his own: a warm, thin covering over his buzzing, endless energy.

You curl your legs up and around him, locking your ankles behind his back. You reach behind and unhook your bra. He slides the straps off your shoulders, kissing the skin there. You pull it off and toss it to the side. He pushes his body against yours, and you feel the tender skin of his stomach slide across yours. He falls into a rhythmic sway against you, tightening his grip on your arms, your ribs, your hips. He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down, throwing them into the dark behind him.

The rhythm of his rocking hips lulls you, lends the slow, sleepy warmth to you as well, and you trace your fingers around the lines of his shoulder blades, drag the tip of your tongue up the sinews of his neck. He pushes into you and you cry out from the surprise of it, the rightness of it, the warmth rushing over you from the outside and now from within. You lose your bearings on space and time, become a floating spirit, a body with his body and somehow also completely incorporeal, entwining with him so that you cannot tell your separateness anymore.

He pushes deeper and harder, soft moans rumbling low in his throat. He quickens his motion incrementally, until you dig your fingers into his shoulders, pull them down his back, grip the round, hard fullness of his thighs, urging him. Faster.

You come apart then, all of your pieces falling around you like shards of porcelain, like the buckled cement of an old sidewalk. He grips you, thrusting into you and rebuilding you from within. As he makes love to you your own self is restored, bit by tiny bit. You see yourself as a mythical goddess, a mermaid with flowing hair, singing a siren song to the sea. You stretch your arms up over your head, arch your back, and ice-blue lightning flows from your fingertips. It comes to you slowly, then, almost painful in its pleasure, coming nearer each time he drives into you. It catches you, a pulsing, pounding, wash of pleasure, thrumming like the beat of a bass drum, like the crashing of the surf on the rough sand. You cry out, your voice ringing out to the corners of the room, to the edges of the world. You float away like a wisp of smoke. You come back into your body, into yourself, into his arms, their grip tightened on you. He speeds again, nearing then that far shore that he is chasing. His breath catches in his throat and he cries out, pushing deep with a thunderous pulse. You feel it beating, pounding inside of you. For a moment he holds his breath, the pulse in his neck jumping wildly. His heart hammers in his chest. He lets out a sigh, and regains himself, panting, resting his forehead on your chest. A thin veil of sweat appears on his skin.

Damp, heaving, and exhausted, you subside in each other’s arms. He leans on you and falls asleep, his ear pressed to your chest, his head resting on the softness of your breasts. 

—

The London morning is grey and mild. You sit by the window in the kitchen, an enormous, puffy white quilt drawn up around your shoulders. You tiptoed down at the first threads of light and made coffee, and you sit now with a mug, steaming and dark. You hear his footsteps padding lightly down the stairs.

“Morning,” he purrs, drawing the quilt down to kiss your neck. You lean into his caress, pinch your eyes shut to block tears. He pours himself a cup of coffee, lays a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m leaving today,” you say. You force yourself to look up at him. His eyes cloud and his brow furrows.

“Leaving here? Or leaving London?’

“Both,” you say. “I have to go.”

He sits down beside you.

“I have a new project for work starting in just a few days,” you say. “And I have to get over my jet lag and… find a lawyer, and—”

“Shh,” he says, placing his hand flat on the table. “Right now, coffee. All the rest? Later.”

“You’re right,” you say, your voice dull and flat.

He stands and looks out the window, sips his coffee. He turns to you with an anxious look. “It’s a very busy day for me today,” he says. “I have loads to do this morning, things that can’t be moved.” He picks his phone up off the kitchen counter, thumbs through a few screens. “I have a break around three for a bit, before a few evening appointments.”

“My flight leaves at five,” you say, “but I have to be at the airport by four at the latest, to get through security.”

He looks at you. “I’ll be there if I can,” he says simply, earnestly. There is more to say but it hangs, unspoken, in the air.

You stand and walk to him, dropping the quilt, reaching around him from behind, burying your nose in the soft t-shirt, between his shoulder blades. He turns to face you, draws his arms around you. “Thank you,” you say.

He laughs. “Thank you.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, kisses you quickly. “I’m off for a run. I’ll see you for a moment when I get back, and then I’ll have to be off to the offices.” He looks at you. “Okay?” he holds your chin in his hand.

“Okay,” you say, willing the tears away as you look in his eyes, their crystal blue-green like the sea in the summer. He smiles. He walks to the front door, pulls on his trainers, and springs out into the morning, pulling the door loudly closed.

As soon as he is gone you dig through the kitchen drawers. Finally you find what you want: a small white pad of paper and a pen. On the top sheet, you write your name. You thumb through your phone for a moment, and scratch your flight number onto the pad as well. You place it and the pen in the middle of the kitchen table, wash your two coffee cups, and set them both upside down to dry on a towel by the side of the sink.

You run up the stairs, pull on your clothes, dash back down, and walk silently out the front door, locking the knob before you shut the door tight behind you. As you walk down the steps to the sidewalk, you force yourself not to look back.


	8. Departing Flights / Epilogue

You pull your phone out of your pocket and look at it quickly. 3:37pm. You set a quick alarm for 3:55 so you will know when to give up and walk down the corridor to the security checkpoint.

You feel silly waiting for him here in the airport. You are the one who left his apartment early. You are the one who didn’t try to call or email.

To be fair, it has been a busy day. A closing-down kind of day. After you left his place, you went back to Patricia’s, cleaned up, packed, and wrote out another note for her. You could have texted or called, but somehow the scratching of the blue ink on paper was comforting. It made you feel grounded and real, as if your feet were on the ground rather than sliding along this oily uncertainty.

You had wanted to make a clean break of it, to let him go without weighing him down, without weighing yourself down with the need to say that One Last Thing. Now, you rethink your plan, wondering if your early escape this morning spoke louder than the note you left for him. Wondering if he is angry.

You ended up at the airport early, and you have your boarding passes, and your bags are checked. _Foolish hope_. People stream in and out, but not him. _And why would he?_

You wonder how you will look back at this in a week, a month, a year. London is a beautiful city, and while you saw less of it than you had intended, in a way, you saw a lot more of life and what you really needed. Strange how you had to come all the way here to discover that you have everything you need to survive inside your own heart.

The alarm buzzes in your pocket. You look down and tap “Dismiss” and drop the phone back in your pocket. You reach down to pick up your bag, and then you see him, standing on the sidewalk outside, his hands in his pockets. The breeze ruffles the wavy hair on top of his head. He squints, watching the road, examining every arriving taxi.

You walk quickly toward him. The doors part for you and you are standing beside him in the sun and the wind. He turns to you. “Sarah.”

There is so much to say that you almost cannot speak at all. “I’m sorry,” you say.

“Don’t be sorry for anything,” he says, gathering you in his arms. You hold him for a moment, your face in his shirt front, resisting the urge to hold him tighter. He holds you at arm’s length for a moment, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

Cars slide past, leaving passengers and bags. The sound of screeching brakes and car horns ricochets over your heads.

“I hate to leave. You say everybody leaves.”

“You have to go where the wind blows, Sarah. You can’t stop time. The universe will laugh at you when you think you’re in control.”

“That’s true, isn’t it.” You slide your hands up his forearms, hold his elbows.

“I’m not sorry for this week,” he says suddenly, his eyes defiant.

“Me either,” you say. “I’d do it again.” You look up at him and smile, and suddenly the mischievous twinkle flashes in his eye. He laughs.

“So would I, Sarah,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

You look him square in the eye, ignore your trembling stomach, the shaky-fluttery feeling you always get when he looks back at you. “You will have love,” you say. “And every happiness. Every happiness.”

“You know, I actually believe you,” he says, and his smile is gentle. The breeze blows again and he leans down, presses a warm, soft kiss on your lips. You hold it there, write it on your memory, inscribe this moment there, indelibly.

“Don’t worry about what happens when you get back,” he says. “You’ll take each challenge as it comes.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“You’ll see.”

You smile, quote his wisdom from earlier that day: “Right now, coffee. All the rest? Later.”

“Exactly.”

It’s 4:00 now. “Coffee?” you ask, pointing inside to the little café placed right before the checkpoint.

“Sure, sure,” he says. “That sounds great.” You hear a chime. His phone. “Just a moment, Sarah,” he says, holding a finger up as he looks at the screen. “Oh, I’ve got to take this. Hold on, I’m so sorry.”

You squeeze his hand and walk back into the atrium, the smell of ground, burnt beans filling your nostrils. “Medium latte,” you tell the clerk. Someone taps on your shoulder.

You spin around. A large man, moderately tall but wide, solid. Late thirties, you guess. He has a full black beard, brownish black hair. Warm brown eyes. He smiles.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Okay? Yes?”

“I’m a musician,” he says.

“I thought so, maybe,” you say, smiling, looking at the huge black instrument case he holds by his side. “Double bass?”

“Yes, exactly,” he says, and you hear a faint hint of an accent. Eastern European?  “We play Klezmer,” he says. “It’s a weird kind of music, but—“

“No, I know what Klezmer is,” you say. “I love it. I listen to it sometimes while I write.” You are smiling. Wide. Why? You look to the side and see three other men, similarly bearded, sitting, smiling and whispering to one another. They look away when they see you spot them. “It’s very energetic.”

“You know Klezmer?” he looks at you and inhales, and all around you there is a lightness, a calm warmth.

You wait for him to go on.

“I… I don’t quite know how to say this, so I’ll just say it.” His glance dashes to his friends, then back at you. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

You nearly drop your bag in surprise.

“When I saw you walking out a moment ago, I thought I would never see you again. And here you are again. I had to come over and introduce myself, and say hello, and tell you that your eyes have changed my life.”

You laugh nervously, searching his face. “Are you being serious?”

A look like pain in his eyes. “Completely,” he says. “I wouldn’t make a joke about this.” He breathes rapidly. _He’s nervous_ , you suddenly know.

“I’m Sarah,” you say, smiling and holding out your hand.

“Adem,” he says, taking your hand in his two, for a moment.

“Adam?”

“No, Adem,” he says. “Almost ‘Adam,’ but not quite. My mother liked the name. My parents are Russian Jews. Which means, I suppose, that I am one, too. It’s a strange name.”

“Klezmer. Adem. Not so very strange,” you say.

“Adem Abraham,” he says. “Abraham is my middle name.”

He pulls a card from his pocket, hands it to you. On the front, the name of his band: Klezmer Kats. On the back, a list of cities and tour dates.

“You’re American!” you say. Your eye flicks down the list of cities: Phoenix. Asheville. Frankfort, Kentucky.

He looks at you again, a sort of pleading in his eyes. “If you’re ever near one of the venues, I hope you’ll come,” he says. He pauses. “I’d love to take you to dinner.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment, and you feel like you might cry. His warmth is so humble, so freely given.

The clerk calls your name and as you turn to get your drink, Adem rushes over, picks it up, hands the clerk a bill, and brings it back to you.

“Thank you,” you say, smiling at him. “Thank you so much.” His eyes crinkle in the kindest way.

Over his shoulder you see Tom striding in.  He sees you taking the cup from Adem. He stops short, suddenly, 30 feet away from you. He looks quickly from you to Adem, then back to you again. A slow smile spreads across his face. He closes his eyes and looks down at his shoes, then looks back at you for just a moment. Your eyes meet. He presses his fingers to his lips, blows you a kiss, and smiles. Holds his hand up in a wave.

You bend down to pick up your bag from where it sits at your feet, to stand and say goodbye to him. But when you straighten back up, Tom is gone.

You stand for a moment, staring at the blank space that he left behind.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say to Adem. “I really have to go now. I’ll miss my flight. Thank you.” He nods modestly; waves.

You slip the card into your pocket and stride quickly down the hall, drinking your coffee as quickly as you can before the agents make you give it up.

—

On the plane you settle in your seat, grateful for the chance to sit down. Your lack of sleep last night is catching up to you, and you are actually looking forward to the long transatlantic flight: a chance to arrange your thoughts or maybe not to think at all.

The plane’s engines start up with their desperate sound, and you grip the armrests tight. You reach in your pocket, take the card out, and read down the list of tour dates. To calm your anxiety you make up a game with yourself. You read the names of the cities in a row, over and over, chanting them like some sort of bizarre geographical prayer. The rhythm of it soothes you.

Whenever the plane takes off, whichever city you are on when the last wheel picks up from the ground, that is where you will go.

 _Augusta. Frankfort. Asheville, Austin._ The plane begins to roll. _Phoenix. Bakersfield. Tacoma. Chicago. St. Paul._

You cycle through them once more as the 767 rattles down the runway, faster. Faster.

 _Augusta, Frankfort,_ you say. _Asheville_. And at that moment, the bumping stops. The plane lets go, presses up into the silver sky.

And you’re floating free.

—

EPILOGUE

It’s a hot day, but it’s a dry kind of California heat, the kind that makes you feel relaxed and happy. It would be hard not to be happy today. It is a sun-drenched day, a day just for fun. Ana is on your shoulders, playing with your hair.

“When is ice cream, Mama?” she asks, again.

“Soon, baby,” you say. “It’s just down the block.”

Adem is setting up for a show tonight with his band, the first of two shows in two nights. You took Ana out to sightsee for the day. After a morning strolling through The Grove, and lunch at the Farmer’s Market, you are taking her down Hollywood Boulevard to see Grauman’s and the stars in the sidewalk. Afterwards, you promised her, you would get some ice cream.

You turn a corner and run into a crush of people, a crowd. A velvet rope lines a blue carpet. Far down the sidewalk, you see flashes popping, hear the clamoring of paparazzi.

Tomorrow are the Academy Awards, but what is this, today? You look around, scan up and down the blue carpet and see a poster for a promotional  party, an advertiser’s pre-Oscar gathering with some of the brightest stars in the acting world.

“Want see, Mama,” says Ana. You walk closer, find a spot at the velvet rope. You peer down the carpet and see a trio of stars from the latest _Mission: Impossible_ film. They look so young, you think to yourself, even though they are probably in their mid-twenties by now. They walk down the rope, signing and shaking hands. You don’t even know their names. They smile when they pass you, shake Ana’s outstretched hand. At barely three years old, she is more outgoing than you ever have been.

You have come out of your shell in these past four years, working alongside Adem as he tours. You started writing freelance for music magazines in the Mid-Atlantic region, and then one of your pieces on Juke music got picked up by a national service, and now your work goes wherever you go. You and Adem jokingly call it a hobo lifestyle, but it suits you very well: hotels, campgrounds, small apartments in cities across the country. Every summer, a European tour. You teach Ana her letters and numbers in the sunny little kitchens wherever you are. Sometimes when the shows are early enough in the day, you can even take her with you, watch her throw her arms up in the air, spin around and dance to the ancient music, singing along with the Hebrew and laughing, her brown eyes – so like Adem’s – shining up at you.

A few more celebrities pass by, and the flashing cameras start up, begin popping at a feverish pace.

And then you see him.

He walks down the carpet with his signature grace and style, drawing all eyes to him. He smiles, holds his hand up casually, then walks over to greet fans. He is nominated again this year, and this time around he is in two categories and stands a good chance of winning either one, or both.

He stops less than two feet away from you and Ana. “Hello,” he says to three giggling girls who hold out posters for him to sign. He makes quick work of the signatures, then reaches you. “Want me to sign something?” he asks. You look up at him.

He stops for a moment. Stares. Flashes popping like glitter all around. “Sarah,” he says, smiling.

You fumble in your purse and pull out the only paper you have, a flier for Adem’s show. You flip it over to the blank side and hold it out to him. The paparazzi heckle loudly. Their cameras light it up like battle.

He takes the paper, takes your hand in his while he scratches away with a Sharpie. Beneath the paper, he grasps your hand, tightly.

“Look Mama!” says Ana. “She’s mama, too!” She points her chubby hand at a woman drawing close to Tom’s elbow.

You read about her a few months ago. Elise. Tall, brunette, and very English. There was a steady strength to her in the interview. A quiet, refined defiance. She refused to answer the reporter’s prying questions about her personal life, insisting instead on talking about her work in agricultural reform. She is a spokeswoman for an NGO that develops irrigation systems in drought-prone areas of the third world, and back at her home outside of London, she runs a small sustainable farm with her parents and two brothers. The magazine had pictures of her walking in tall, yellow-green grass, wearing dirty knee-high black rubber boots, in a herd of woolly sheep. A gorgeous, sparkling setting of sapphires on her ring finger.

Elise walks to him, takes his elbow, and whispers in his ear. He nods at her, smiles, laughs. His eyes follow her as she walks away.

“She has baby. She has baby boy,” says Ana loudly, watching Elise as she walks away. You see it then, too: a slight fullness at her waist, a rounded belly.

Tom looks up in surprise. “Is she like you, Sarah?” he asks, glancing at Ana. “Can she see things?”

“Yes, I’m beginning to think so,” you say, smiling. “I think Ana can see things like me.” You whisper. “Is Elise…”

He smiles, beaming. He nods. He bites his lip. He turns back to the paper, and signs his name. He looks up at you. “Thank you,” you say.

“My pleasure,” he says, squeezing your hand again. Then, he looks up: “Thank you, Ana. Be good for your mum.”

“Bye,” calls out Ana. He moves down the row.

You turn, folding the flyer in your palm. You keep walking down the sidewalk, away from the crowd, away from the flashes and the autograph hounds and the shouting photographers. You pause in the cool, quiet shade of a tall, spindly tree.

“Mama, is it ice cream time?” asks Ana.

“In a minute, honey,” you say. “The shop is just up the road here.”

You lean against the tree trunk, hold Ana on your shoulders with one hand and open the flyer with the other.

There, in dark black ink, you see what he wrote.

Sarah,

**_ Every Happiness. _ **

Love,

Tom


End file.
